


Sugar We’re Going Down Baking

by johanirae, LadySmutterella



Series: Sugar We're Going Down Baking [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cake, Educational, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-16 04:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12335895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johanirae/pseuds/johanirae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySmutterella/pseuds/LadySmutterella
Summary: Twelve bakers. Ten weeks. Countless cakes, bakes, and heartbreaks. Will Patrick win star baker? Will Gerard ever learn that cakes are more about flavour than fancy frosting? How did Bob literally set himself on fire? What will Frank do with non-vegan ingredients? Will Pete ever manage to tell Patrick how he feels? Tune in for this season of The Great Bandom Bake-off for answers to all of these questions and more!Featuring Mel and Sue, this fic contains 100% of your RDA of baking education, 2 portions of fresh fluff, and trace amounts of puns.





	1. Week One – American Bakers, British Professionals

**Author's Note:**

> My very grateful thanks to Scarredsodeep for beta reading, support, and coming up with a summary when all I wanted to do was to lie down and die. 
> 
> Also love and thanks to Johanirae for another year of brilliant art, and selfless and enthusiastic support. Everyone should have a talented and prolific artist in their corner - it makes life so much better. 
> 
> I also owe thanks to my writing group. Their disbelief about English food finds a home in several sections of this story. 
> 
> Finally, thank you for reading this. It was a real challenge to write – much more so than normal – and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> Warning: this story is more educational about cake than you'd expect. I am really serious about this.

**Week One – American Bakers, British Professionals**

“This is England, isn’t it?” Sue asks, with a frown. 

“I think so,” Mel says. “I mean, it was when I woke up this morning.”

“And we’re still in Great Britain, right?”

“Should be.” Mel nods encouragingly. “Unless Brexit meant more than they told us.”

“It’s just that I can hear a lot of American accents,” Sue says, as the camera pulls back to show a bunch of bakers. Viewers can tell they’re bakers; they’re wearing aprons.

“Oh well,” Mel and Sue say together, grinning at the camera. “I'm sure there's some sort of explanation. Welcome to a brand new series of the Great British Bake Off.”

—

Gerard’s never thought what taking part in a TV show entails before. He’s certainly never considered taking part in an English baking show. 

It’s not like any American cookery show, that’s for sure.

For a start it’s in an actual tent. A tent made of canvass. A tent made of canvass in the middle of the English countryside. For fuck’s sake. He passed _sheep_ on his way in. 

And he’d never considered that he might have to sign something that looks like the Official Secrets Act before he was allowed to take part. For the first time he wishes he’d asked Mikey what this damn thing was before he agreed to come with him to England to keep him company as he tried out.

Of course hindsight is a very exact science. 

Gerard had never intended to be taking part as well as Mikey. Gerard had never intended to bake in public _ever_. Honestly – if he _was_ being honest – Gerard had never intended to bake again after his grandmother died. This was her thing – not his – and he’d only ever helped her because it meant that he got to spend time with her. Well, that and he got to lick the bowl. 

Clearly Gerard’s intentions mean nothing to the universe. 

He squares his shoulders, trying to ignore the feelings of dramatic inevitability, and scowls as he steps into the tent.

—

 _“Oh, I’m a witch,” Lynz says. She’s pretty and quirky. Her makeup is on point. The camera_ loves _her. “Baking is just how I manifest my craft.”_

—

Pete is bored. Bored, bored, _bored_. 

He never thought that TV would be boring, but then he’d never really thought about the process of TV at all.

In all of this – the application, the auditions, the screen tests, the decision to leave the US for the UK – he’s only ever thought about the outcome. The audience. The reaction of judges as they bite into the cakes he bakes – as they _understand_ what he’s trying to say. The press headlines as he wins.

Maybe an American show would have been more exciting, but no show anywhere in the world seems to inspire the devotion that the Great British Bake Off does. Pete likes devotion. He especially likes being the focus of it. 

At least the others seem to be feeling the same way. That weird goth guy with the worrying hair is scowling like someone’s suggested he has to take a shower, and the thin dude with the glasses has his lips clamped together like he might be sick if he talks. Boring. 

The women look a bit more interesting – the hot punk chick with the makeup, and the mad looking red head with the drawn on eyebrows might be good for a laugh at least, even if the granny and the manic-pixie-dreamgirl don’t do it for him. He may as well introduce himself, he thinks, cuz these sorts of friendships make for good TV, and being good TV will mean more screen time for him. 

“Hey.” Someone shoves him, and Pete spins around, affronted to find a short, strawberry-blond dude, with orgasm-pink cheeks and flashing eyes. “You nearly trod on me, dick.” 

“Oh.” Pete blinks at him, reconsidering his strategy. The guy’s cheeks get pinker, but his mouth turns down more and Pete can’t tell if it’s anger or embarrassment. “I didn’t see you there.”

“You wouldn’t,” the guy snaps, and moves to push past Pete towards the tent. 

“What do you mean by that?” Pete asks, actually interested for the first time in… Well. In a while at the very least. 

“Look at you,” the guy says, and Pete registers a flash of shock as he realises his accent is familiar – is _home_. “This is just a game for you, isn’t it?” He pauses for a beat, but Pete is dumbfounded, struck mute by things he’d thought he would never feel again. “Well some of us _worked_ to get here. We didn’t just…”

“Sorry,” Pete blurts out, all ability to act poised deserting him in his hour of need. “For treading on you. I didn’t mean to.”

“What?” The guy looks slightly stunned, the wind taken out of his sails. “Oh. Okay.”

He turns like he’s just going to walk off, and Pete’s not going to accept that. 

“What bench do you think you’ll have?” he asks, because if he’s learnt anything it’s that friendships are forged by proximity and persistence. “Shall we have benches next to each other?”

“I’m not sure we can,” the guy tells him. “I think the production crew assign us…”

“They can try,” Pete says. “But…” He slings his arm over the guy’s shoulders and tries to ignore the look of alarm that dawns on his face. “They can’t keep us apart if we want to be together, baby.”

The guy makes a small, high-pitched noise of alarm, and jumps backwards, out of Pete’s hold. 

“I gotta…” He waves his hand, his eyes hunting for an escape route. “Go.”

He’s gone almost before the sound’s faded away, and Pete lets him go, finally feeling like there’s the chance that he might be able to find something that won’t bore him. 

“Hey,” he calls to the guy’s back. “What’s your name?”

The guy turns, his mouth finally – _finally_ – twisting up into a tiny smile.

“Patrick,” he calls back, and Pete grins, a man who’s found the answer to a question he hadn’t realised he was asking. 

—

_Mikey stares at the camera; the camera stares back. Mikey is amazingly thin and painfully cool – his cheekbones look like you could cut yourself on them. He’s wearing glasses, and the only way you can tell this isn’t a still shot is that he’s blinking behind them. His lashes are ridiculously long, and fan against his cheeks each time._

_The viewer can almost feel the English embarrassment of the cameraman who has no idea what to do now._

_In the end the camera swings away._

—

“We’ve met our competitors,” Mel says, “and the question now is which of these brand new bakers can master all the challenges we throw at them.”

“It’s no cake walk,” Sue says, looking at the camera, mock-stern. “Our winning baker can’t be a flash in the pan.” 

“More Bakewell than tart,” Mel says seriously. 

“Better at spotting problems than dicking around,” Sue says, and a production assistant turns purple and waves their clipboard around in a manner that suggests this bit’s going to get cut before the show is aired. 

“A proud and imperial Victoria rather than a sponge,” Mel says doing her best to keep a straight face. 

“Which is lucky,” Sue says, “because this is cake week.”

“Over the next two days our bakers will face three challenges after which one will be crowned star baker and one will have to leave.”

Sue nods. “And for our first signature bake, Paul and Mary would like you to bake a sandwich cake, generous on the filling, soft to the touch, much like Paul.”

“So grease your tins and prepare your jugs,” Mel says, and grins at Sue. 

“On your marks,” they say together. “Get set. Bake!”

—

 _“Who gives a **** how it looks?” Frank asks. Whoever’s edited this_ loves _his tattoos – the camera lingers on every exposed bit of ink in an honestly lascivious manner. “It’s all in the flavour. You don’t buy a cake to look at it.”_

_He glares at the camera, like he expects it to argue. Unsurprisingly the camera doesn’t._

_Frank nods anyway, satisfied he’s won the argument._

—

He knew it was coming, but he’s still relieved when Sue tells them to bake a sandwich cake. 

Gerard knows where his strengths lie and they are, 100%, presentation. 

Honestly, he’s eaten very few cakes since he lost the weight a few years ago, but the eyes… well. You eat with your eyes first and it doesn’t matter how something tastes if you don't want to put it in your mouth to begin with. 

Right now, though, he’s fairly confident he can manage both.

He’s been practicing for a few weeks, in the shitty little flat he and Mikey rented when they both got a place on the show, trading baking time with Mikey and wandering through London the rest of the time, searching for inspiration. 

He’s making a red velvet cake. Mikey’s going for a coffee cake, and Gerard had wavered for a moment. But red velvet looks _amazing_ , and who’s he trying to kid? He’d just drink the coffee and the cake would taste worse than normal. 

He finished sifting together the flour, cocoa, and baking powder but has only just started to beat together the butter and the sugar when the judges walk up to his bench. 

“Tell us about your cake,” Paul tells him, and Gerard finds himself gasping for breath for a second. 

“It’s a red velvet,” he says at last, when Mel has started giving him encouraging and slightly worried looking nods. “It was, uh, my Grandmom’s favourite.” 

“Ah.” Mary smiles at him, and he may not have made a huge mistake playing the grandmother card. “An American cake from the late nineteenth century, yes?” She waits for Gerard to nod before she continues. “Red velvet needs to be a very soft cake. The crumb is smooth rather than fluffy and you need a silky finish.” She grins at Gerard, suddenly devilish, and Gerard’s reminded with a pang of his grandmother. “And it should look gaudy, yes? The Dolly Parton of cakes.”

Paul nods and looks at the ingredients Gerard’s set out. “You’re using sour cream rather than buttermilk?” He sounds skeptical. “That’s an interesting choice.”

“It’s how my grandma used to make it,” Gerard says, but he doesn’t look convinced. 

“What food colouring are you using?” Mary asks.

“Red dye,” Gerard says, relieved to be back on familiar ground. “Like you said, it needs to be gaudy.”

“You’re not using beetroot juice?” Paul asks. Gerard’s starting to think he might actually dislike the man – and not only for the unendearing habit he has of sticking his hands in his packets and pulling the front of his jeans so tightly that the outline of his junk is clearly visible. 

“No,” Gerard says, doing his best to keep his annoyance out of his voice. “It would affect the flavour of the cake too much.”

“Well,” Paul says. “Good luck.” He doesn’t sound like he means it, and Gerard’s smile in return is equally false. 

— 

_“It’s science,” Patrick says, frowning at the camera like it’s going to argue with him. “Weights and times and knowledge. There’s nothing mystical about baking.”_

—

Pete’s watching Gerard deal with the cameras. It’s giving him food for thought. 

Gerard’s the perfect balance of shy and engaging and Pete’s going to have to watch out for him. 

His brother, though… well. He’s the thin kid that Pete noticed earlier, back before he knew there were any links between the other competitors. It could be a threat – family rivalries make good TV after all – but Pete’s been watching him and he doesn’t link he’s got cause for concern. 

Right now, for example, he’s poking at the plug of his food mixer and scowling thoughtfully while his brother explains his cake. It’s… oddly endearing, and for a second Pete considers going over. But there’s cameras everywhere and anyway, Patrick is on the bench next to him, frowning adorably over his ingredients. 

Pete turns back to his bench and smiles down at his own ingredients. He’s only baking an almond and rose petal cake – something so simple it’s almost boring. But then the past two years have been nothing _but_ boredom. Why should a TV show be any different?

What is different is the interest he’s feeling in the people around him. In the skinny brother, in Patrick… In a lot of things. It gives him hope, gives him something to hold onto. It’s the first time he’s felt like that since the whole incident. 

He smiles down at the ground almonds he’s weighing out. He’ll bake them into a cake with rose water, sandwich it with a rose jelly, and top it with candied rose petals. It’s a conceit – simple but hopefully unexpected. Something to make the judges smile when they find romance sandwiched in the mundane. He’s considering making a layer of Italian merengue as well, just to…

“Fuck,” Patrick says, low and heartfelt. Pete drops his train of thought and his sieve and turns around to check he’s okay. 

He can’t see anything too amiss. Patrick seems to be… making his own jam. There are raspberries and sugar and Patrick’s full lips are pursed into a tiny moue of concentration. 

“Hey,” Pete whispers in the loudest undertone he can manage. “You okay?”

“Oh.” Patrick looks at him in confusion. “Yeah. I just…” He gestures at the jam and shrugs. “Setting points. You know.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure.” Pete nods like his jams and jellies aren’t mostly the result of serendipity and zoning out while he watches the bubbles. “Setting points are the worst.”

It might not be the totally right thing to say, but Patrick gives him a puzzled smile and Pete decides to press his advantage. 

“What are you baking?” he asks, edging closer to Patrick’s bench and eyeing up Patrick’s ingredients. 

“A Victoria sponge,” Patrick says, and his cheeks turn pink. “It’s not… whatever you’re doing.” He waves his hand at the roast petals Pete’s laid out to frost. “But there’s nowhere to hide with it.” 

Pete nods. It isn’t how he bakes, but he can see the attraction of the approach. He finds himself wanting Patrick to prove that he can make the perfect Victoria sponge, and the idea surprises him. He’s struggled hard enough over the last year to be interested in his own survival – never mind success. He’s barely had enough energy left over to accept that anyone else is real. 

It’s… different, and Pete isn’t sure how welcome the change is. He can feel the tightening in his throat that signals the rising tide of panic, the bitter taste of not being perfect, good, _enough_. 

He turns back to his own baking, trying not to notice how Patrick’s face falls as he moves away. 

He can’t afford to be distracted – not by Patrick, not by Gerard and his show winning smile, not by Gerard’s brother and… Pete’s eyes widen slightly. He’s not sure _why_ the kid has the cover off his mixer now, but he’s idly poking at the newly exposed electrics with the metal handle of a spoon. Pete looks around, unsure if he should let someone know, because that sure as hell isn’t safe, but Gerard’s already seen. 

He drops his cake mix to the bench and dashes towards Mikey, knocking the food colouring to the floor in his haste. 

Pete watches it fall, watches the spreading pool of crimson, hypnotised and barely aware of the sounds of brotherly scolding as Gerard smacks Mikey’s hands away from the mixer, away from danger. 

—

_“I think I’m the token Brit this year!” Joan smiles at the camera, like an extra who’s been hired to portray the perfect grandmother. “It makes it exciting though – my grandchildren will love it! And it’s certainly nice to see so many young people so enthusiastic about baking.”_

—

“So, Gerard,” Sue says, cocking her hip and leaning against his bench. “We hear you took the auditions by storm.”

“Oh, yes.” Mel leans over her shoulder, grinning hugely. “You baked a raspberry genoise mousse cake, didn’t you? The production team told us all about it.”

“Yeah.” Gerard looks shifty, though he’s probably doing his best to conceal the fact. “I did.”

“The judges were impressed,” Mel says. “They said they’d never seen such a beautiful cake outside a professional kitchen.”

Sue nods earnestly. “It’s a shame the cameraman nearly choked to death on the vanilla.” She grins into the camera. “We’re fond of Norman, and he’s fond of cake.”

Mel shakes her head sadly. “You do know you’re meant to scrape the seeds out and discard the pods, don’t you?” 

“I do now,” Gerard says between gritted teeth, and both Mel and Sue laugh.

Quite what he’d say next is fortunately lost to posterity; somehow Bob, who had been quietly making a lemon cake, has managed to set himself on fire. 

Frank emits a battlecry worthy of a much more appreciative audience and flings himself across the benches to wrestle Bob to the ground, rolling him to extinguish the flames. 

It’s probably only chance that he collides with Gerard on the way, but Gerard goes down hard, hitting the floor as Mel and Sue watch with open mouths.

“How the hell did he manage that?” Mel asks once the fire’s out and Frank’s helping a wide-eyed and slightly caramelised Bob to his feet. “He was only making lemon curd.” 

—

 _“It’s sensual.” It shouldn’t be possible on a cake show on prime time BBC, but Bert is_ leering _. All across the country, ladies of a certain age and inclination eye their screens with interest. “All food is sensual. It should attract you, tantalise you… make you want more.”_

_He holds out a plate to Mel and Sue. There are two macarons on it. You can tell how delicious they are, just from the shimmer. Bert’s jeans are riding very low on his hips._

_“Goodness,” Sue says. Behind her Mel is fanning her face._

—

Gerard’s ankle really fucking hurts. 

Sure Frank had apologised, and Gerard had put a brave face on things when the production assistant asked if he wanted to continue, but right now he’s staring at his cream cheese frosting while the cake cools and wondering if the cameras will notice if he sits on the floor and whimpers. 

Probably, he decides and he spreads the icing thickly on the bottom layer of the cake. 

Not even Mikey is supporting him in his hour of need. He’s too busy beating together the maple icing for his coffee cake, his eyes fixed on the pretty girl on the bench in front of him – Gerard thinks she’s called Kristen. 

Well, Gerard thinks, gently placing the next bright red layer of cake down. He’ll be sorry on Monday when Gerard’s leg’s dropped off and…

“Hey.” A square of chocolate bounces off the back of his head and he spins around. Frank’s staring him, another bit of chocolate in his hand. “Are you okay?”

“Sure.” Gerard sniffs. “Not that you care.” 

“That’s not true,” Frank says, looking hurt. “I…”

“Touching as this is,” Lynz says. “Could you do it some other time? Some of us are trying to bake.”

“Sorry.” Gerard turns his best smile onto her, effectively banishing Frank from his mind. “It smells great. What are you making?”

“It’s Earl Grey and lavender,” she says, looking a little less pissed off. “To soothe frazzled nerves and bring calm.”

“Cool,” Gerard says, even though he’s not sure how good that will taste. “I could do with a slice of that.”

“That’s why I chose it,” Lynz says. “I thought we probably all could.” 

She turns back to her cake, and Gerard grins at the picture she makes, frowning in concentration, but still beautiful and poised. Behind her Frank is piling a chocolate cake together. It looks awful. Gerard returns to icing his cake. He kinda hopes Frank will be the one voted off this week. 

—

_“Cupcakes are important!” Kristen says. “They’re often the first way that kids engage with cooking and creating things in the kitchen. They make people smile – you try being unhappy when someone you love hands you a cupcake.” She looks down at the cupcakes spread out in front of her. “My sisters always make them for me when I’m sad, and I want to pass that on to everyone else now.”_

—

“Bakers!” Sue’s voice booms across the tent, and the bakers all look up, concern on each of their faces. “You have ten minutes left. Sandwich your cakes and cover your regrets with icing.”

The tent is a hive of activity. From Kristen’s desperate attempts to dust different coloured icing sugars over 24 cup-cake sized sandwich cakes, to Amanda’s efforts to prop up the too-dense medieval honey cake she chose, all the bakers are completely focussed. Gerard is gilding pecans to top his cake; Frank is using an industrially sized syringe to inject something dark red into the centre of his chocolate cake. Bob is trying to arrange candied lemon rind with bandaged hands, and Pete is scattering his rose petals across his cake and trying to pretend he’s not busy watching Patrick. From the candied bacon on Bert’s dark chocolate cake, to the coffee beans on Mikey’s cake and the fake roses on Joan’s apricot and banana cake… things are coming together. 

All that remains now is the judging.

—

_”Cooking is the most honest form of communication there is,” Pete tells the camera, earnestly. They’ve shot the segment in his apartment. It is very white, and unlike most of the other home-based shoots, there is no one else there. “You can misunderstand the words people say to you, but you never misunderstand something someone cooks for you.” He smiles and shakes his head, his gaze focussed somewhere a million miles from the camera. “It’s magic.”_

—

Pete knows that judging should be stressful, and looking around the other contestants he can almost believe it. He just… doesn't feel it. 

He’s pleased enough with his own cake though – an almond sponge with a rose petal jam that’s come out moist and bouncy. It’s meant to symbolize the delicate beauty of love and the bitter poison at its heart, but now it comes to it, he’s not sure he can be bothered explaining that. Instead he moves his cake to the end of the bench and stands there, trying to concentrate on his breathing and ignore the way that Patrick is vibrating out of his skin on the next bench. 

The signature bakes are always judged at the baker’s benches – he’s watched enough of the show to know that – but it makes it difficult to get a sense of what is happening. He can barely hear what Mary and Paul are saying, much less see the cakes that they’re looking at. 

Still, he can tell from the look on Bob’s face that his cake hadn’t gotten a good reception. He’s not sure how it _could_ have when Bob had set fire to the lemon curd. Pete imagines what scorched lemon curd would smell like and shudders. 

Kristen’s mini-cakes seem to go down much better. Mel sneaks a couple into her pockets at least, and the production assistants are eyeing the remains hungrily, which Pete assumes is a good sign. 

By the time they reach Gerard’s bench in front of him, Pete’s been straining to hear for so long that he’s almost invested in the outcome. And Gerard’s cake does look good – the vivid red of the sponge standing out beautifully against the snowy white cream cheese icing he’s used as Paul cuts into it. 

Paul doesn’t seem to think so though. He pokes the cake with his fork, frowning slightly, before finally taking a mouthful. 

“Too dense,” he declares and Gerard’s face falls. “You used sour cream rather than buttermilk and it’s made it fudgey.”

“Like a brownie,” Mary agrees, nodding. “And the cream cheese is too rich. I would have used a lighter frosting with a cake like this.”

Gerard looks devastated, folding into himself in a way that Pete finds fascinating, all of the bravado and poise from earlier gone. Mary seems to notice as well, because she gives him a smile. 

“It’s a striking looking cake though,” she says, “which is the point of a red velvet, and the bake is good.” 

Paul nods. “Watch out for your ingredients next time,” he says. “You’ll find that small changes have a huge impact.” 

Gerard barely has time to nod before they’ve moved on to his brother, cutting open and dissecting Mikey’s coffee cake, praising it’s bitterness and questioning whether it needed another five minutes in the oven, while Gerard clenches his fists by his thighs, his shoulders so tense that Pete can see them from where he’s standing. 

It’s fascinating – how invested he is already – and Pete can’t look away, searching himself for something similar, some emotion that says he cares about this stupid thing. He can’t find it though, and he misses the judges moving from Mikey, to Patrick, to him. 

“So you’ve made an almond and rose petal cake,” Mary says, and Pete nods, coming back to himself in a rush. 

“Yes,” he tells her, deploying his most dazzling smile. “It’s a favourite of mine. Something that people enjoy eating with a cup of tea.”

He’s not lying. He used to get access to the kitchens at the… well. While he was away. _Baking’s therapeutic_ , he’d argued and they’d believed him. The fact that they’d believe he’d filled up on cake gave him a precious tiny freedom at mealtimes, and there were any number of tiny hurts that could be excused by the knives and heat of the kitchen. 

Anyway, his therapist seemed mellower when he brought a slice of cake with him, and Pete’s always had a good eye for anything that might make his life easier. 

He doesn’t share it with the judges or the camera. He chose this show because it avoids the confessional stereotype that so many other reality shows use as fuel. Instead he breathes slowly and deeply while Mary and Paul prod at the cake with far too much interest, judging the bounce and the crumb in a way that Pete’s seen a thousand times on screen, but which seems much more intimidating now that it’s aimed at him.

“It’s good,” Mary declares eventually, putting her fork back down on the bench. “The rosewater in the jam is a delicate note, and the cake itself is nice and moist.”

“The almonds go well with the floral theme,” Paul agrees, “though there’s a bit too much rose for my taste. A good bake though.” He nods his approval at Pete and they move on, leaving Pete staring after them. There’s something warm in his chest, something he might once have thought was pride or contentment. It’s not much – but he’s surprised to feel even that much. 

He focuses on the feeling, ignoring the judges looking at Lynz’s cake behind him and only looking up when they move on to someone else. 

Patrick’s looking at him, a slightly puzzled expression on his face, like he’s trying to work Pete out. It’s the last thing Pete wants. 

“How did you do?” he whispers across the gap to Patrick. Patrick shrugs. They’re only a couple of arms lengths apart and from here Pete can see the Victoria sponge Patrick baked is technically perfect in a way he’s never be able to manage. “I bet it tastes amazing. You should…”

He breaks off as a stern faced production assistant shushes him and makes an apologetic face to Patrick. 

Mary and Paul have reached Frank now, and are making slightly astonished noises at him.

“I don’t think we’ve had a vegan bake outside of the specific week before,” Paul says, looking skeptical. Pete has to admit he has good cause. 

Frank’s baked a chocolate cake, but unlike the airy confection that Patrick baked or even the slightly denser cake that Pete made, this looks like a car crash on a plate. Not that Frank looks worried by that, though. He juts his chin out, oblivious to the shame he should be feeling, and watches as Mary cuts a slice. 

They both look unconvinced as they take a bit, and Pete suspects he knows who’ll be going out this week, but their expressions change as they chew. 

“This is delicious.” Mary says, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Really moist and chocolatey, and is that...”

“Passion fruit curd,” Frank confirms. “To cut against the richness.”

“It looks awful,” Paul says, “but… yes. A good bake. Well done.”

He shakes Frank’s hand and Frank lights up with pride. He glares across the tent and for a second, Pete’s worried he’s somehow inadvertently managed to offend him already, but Gerard makes a wounded noise and Pete realizes the glare isn’t meant for him. 

It’s a relief – he’s really not up for the drama – and he turns away from Frank to grin at Patrick as the production assistant tells them they’re breaking for lunch now. 

“So,” he says as the noise in the tent picks up, “you gonna give me a slice of that cake?”

Patrick looks surprised, but he nods and cuts Pete a piece, balancing it on a paper towel before he hands it over. 

He looks adorably confused by it all, and Pete takes the paper with a smile and a flourishing bow. 

He wonders if he can sit next to Patrick while they eat. 

—

“Of course, it’s not _usual_ to have so many overseas competitors,” Mary says, her head inclining regally towards the camera. “But it goes to show how many people are coming to appreciate the art of baking.” She pauses, considering. “It should be interesting to see the influences they bring to this year’s competition.”

—

“Seriously,” Gerard says to Mikey as they come back into the tent from lunch. “Did you even see his cake? I mean…” He giggles. “It looked like a turd.”

“Eh.” Mikey shrugs. “I guess it isn’t easy to bake without eggs and butter.”

“It’s his choice,” Gerard says, snottily. “I just feel sorry for his family. I mean… he’s got to have to have practiced on them and…”

He breaks off as someone pushes past him, bumping him with his shoulder none-too-gently. The bottom falls out of his stomach as he realizes it’s Frank.

There’s no way he didn’t hear Gerard, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stomps to his bench and starts glaring at his nails, like they’ve somehow offended him. 

“Do you think he…” Gerard starts, hoping against hope, but Mikey shakes his head.

“Of course he did,” Mikey says, heading for his own bench and leaving Gerard alone with the assembling cameras and a sinking feeling that he’s completely to blame here.

__

“The sandwiches are done,” Mel says, leaning into the camera. “Lunches are eaten…” She raises an eyebrow. “Now it’s time for a roll.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Sue says, then puts her palm to her forehead like she's just remembering something. “Wait… you mean the technical challenge!”

“Of course I did!” Mel looks innocent. “Is there something else I could mean?”

“No,” Sue says. “Never.” She looks at the bakers, tense-faced and nervous behind their benches. “Now, bakers. There’s a basket of ingredients for you. It’s everything you need to make today’s technical challenge.”

“And today, Mary and Paul want you to make a Swiss roll.”

“Jammy but not too jammy.”

“No unfortunate cracks.”

“And you’ve got an hour!”

“Ready,” Mel says. 

“Steady,” Sue says. 

“Bake!” 

—

Pete frowns down at the instructions. 

They resemble nothing so much as a haiku – minimal to the point of sparseness, suggesting a technique without dwelling on unnecessary details such as timing or technique. 

“Can you believe this?” he mutters to Patrick. “I mean, what’s the point in baking if you don’t get any choice in what you bake?” He tries to work out how long he’s meant to bake the sponge for. “I’m not sure these are even real instructions.”

Patrick sighs at him, but his mouth quirks up in a tiny smile. “They are,” he says, and Pete shakes his head in disbelief.

“Make a sponge with ingredients provided,” he reads from the paper to Patrick, scorn dripping from every word. “Fill and roll.” He lowers the instructions and raises an eyebrow in what he hopes is eloquent skepticism. “Seriously? _Those_ are instructions to make a Swiss roll?”

Patrick’s unpacking the basket of ingredients. It looks like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“C’mon,” Pete wheedles. “How am I meant to make anything with this?”

Pete looks around the tent, like he’s not meant to be caught talking to Pete or something. “Because you know how to bake,” he hisses. 

“I know how to improvise,” Pete says in a low voice, “when I’m given instructions.” He looks at the paper that’s flopping sadly on his bench. “Proper instructions.”

“God,” Patrick mutters but he catches Pete’s eye and starts pulling out the ingredients they’ve been given from their basket, putting them where Pete can clearly see them before carefully measuring out a cup of the plain flour. 

It’s clear what he intends to do, and knowing there is someone he can rely on makes some knot in Pete’s stomach relax, giving him some small shred of confidence that he can do this. 

There’s a susurrus of disgruntled murmuring from around the tent, and now Pete can see beyond his own fear he can recognise that everyone is as taken aback by the instructions as he is. In fact, Patrick seems to be the only baker who is immune to the contagion of panic. 

“C’mon, Mikes.” Gerard is wheedling across the gap in the benches. “What flours are you using?”

Mikey shrugs, but it’s a valid question. The baskets have three sorts of flours, and Pete guesses the flour you choose will impact the finished cake. 

Gerard seems to be splitting plain flour and potato flour, but behind him, Frank seems to be opting for self-raising flour. But Patrick’s chosen plain flour, and Pete asked for help, so… He measures a cup of plain flour of his own and grins at Patrick. 

There’s no baking powder in the basket, so they must be intending them to use something else as a raising agent. Now he can think straight he can remember enough of his baking science to be able to put it together – it’s got to be whipping air into the eggs and sifting the flour enough that it doesn’t squash the air out of the mix.

He’s done this before, and has always beaten the eggs and sugar together for this, but next to him Patrick is concentrating on separating his eggs with such fierce intensity that his tongue is poking out. 

“Hey,” Pete mutters. “Why are you doing that?”

“Beat the whites separately,” Patrick replies quietly, rolling his eyes like he shouldn’t have to explain this. “It traps more air.”

“Oh,” Pete says, slightly stunned by the idea, because, of course it does. He follows Patrick’s lead, and is rewarded by a cake batter than is lighter than anything he’s ever managed before.

He’s just getting ready to pour it onto the baking tray when Patrick appears at his shoulder.

“Seriously?” he hisses, looking furious. “You’re not going to line your tray? Do you _want_ to be scraping bits of cake off and trying to mould them into a roll?” 

“Fuck,” Pete curses, glancing around guiltily in case any of the cameras caught him swearing. “I forgot.” 

“You forgot,” Patrick repeats, deadpan, like it’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “Can you actually even bake?”

“Of course I can,” Pete replies, needled. “I just don’t…” He waves his hand in a manner that’s meant to suggest everything around him – Patrick, the technical bake, the serious faced business of cooking. 

Patrick shakes his head. “Why do you even bake?” he asks, and there’s something about the puzzlement in his tone that stops Pete from snapping a reply at him. 

“I don’t know,” he says instead slowly, concentrating on the simple mechanics of buttering and lining the baking tray. “I guess it calms me down.” He pauses, weighing the truth of the statement in his mind. “And it’s a way of expressing myself.” He shrugs, carefully levelling the batter on the lined try. “It’s a way I can make people like me without having to, you know, talk to them.”

He looks up at Patrick, not sure what he’s hoping to see. 

Patrick is looking at him like he’s seeing him for the first time. 

“Ten minutes,” he says at last, nodding at the baking tray. “Maybe 12. Until the sponge is springy and golden.” 

—

_It’s the aesthetic of the thing,” Gerard says, staring earnestly at the camera. “Baking’s an art – no different to painting or sculpting except the results are edible.” Behind him the evidence of various artistic endeavours are stacked in chaotic towers that reach towards the ceiling. “Everyone knows that the eyes taste before the mouth does, and cakes especially should be more about the anticipation than the consumption.”_

—

“God,” Frank says, and Gerard’s sure he’s not alone in thinking that his voice is a bit whiney. “I can’t believe I had to use eggs.”

Gerard’s not sure who he’s talking to and he doesn’t care enough to turn around to check. He has no idea why Frank’s voice is even carrying as far as him – it’s probably just another sign that Gerard’s cursed. 

It’s not as if he even needs another sign – he’s fairly sure he’s over-baked the damn thing, and he prods it glumly as it cools on its rack. 

He’s not the only one, though. Bob’s cake… well. There’s only so dexterous you can be with your hands bandaged up, and Bob reached his limit back when he dropped the first batch of batter twenty minutes ago. It’s cold comfort, but it means that Gerard doesn’t have to worry about being thrown off in week one. 

He glances behind him and frowns. Both Patrick and Pete seem to be rolling up their cakes without bothering to wait for them to cool. 

He glares at his own sponge where it’s spread out on the cooling rack, like that will help it chill or something, and tries to decide if it’s too soon to spread the jam on it. 

The decision’s taken out of his hands. 

“Five minutes,” Mel warns in a loud voice. “Five minutes, bakers.”

Gerard spreads his jam on as evenly as he can and tries to ignore the bustle of panic-scented activity around him as he starts to roll up his cake. 

The trick, he knows, is to move slowly and steadily and…

The cake cracks. 

“Fuck,” Gerard whispers, then glances around, scared that the cameras have caught him. They seem more interested in whatever Bert’s doing to his buttercream though, and Gerard tries to salvage his cake and his pride and does his best to disguise the defect by making it the bottom of the Swiss roll. It means that it overlapping part is at the top, which doesn’t look great, but at least the worst sins might escape detection. 

Gerard puts the plate with his sponge onto the front bench alongside the others and goes to balance on the stool, wondering desperately why he ever bothered applying to this stupid show in the first place. 

—

_“I dunno.” Ray shrugs at the camera. His cheeks are pink and he’s biting his lip. Grandmothers nationwide earmark him as a potential husband for their granddaughters. They’re sure he’ll cut his hair once he has a nice girl in his life. “Pastry just does what I tell it to.”_

_Behind him is a meticulous kitchen and an impressive range of patisserie cooling on wire racks. There are family pictures pinned to cupboard doors. The grandmothers pick up their phones to alert their offspring to the television, pleased, because how often does a nice boy like this bake as well?_

—

“Okay, bakers.” Sue beams at the terrified contestants. “It’s judging time.”

“Yes.” Mel nods sagely. “And because the technical challenge is a blind judging round, you need to sit on these stools and try not to make faces while Mary and Paul discuss your bake.”

The bakers shuffle nervously onto the stools, the cameras tracking their faces as the tension mounts in the tent. They catch Gerard squeezing Mikey’s arm, the supercilious curl of Amanda’s lip as she surveys the array of Swiss rolls in front of her, the bump of Pete’s knee against Patrick’s leg and the small smile they share. They are tiny moments of humanity that viewers embrace while the pace of the music picks up and Mary and Paul walk into the tent. 

They cut into Gerard’s cake first, and the cameras zoom in on the look of frozen horror on his face. 

“It’s cracked,” Paul says, pointing at the huge crack that Gerard had tried to hide at the bottom.

“And it looks messy,” Mary agrees. “The join should be towards the bottom, not the top.”

“Nice and soft though,” Paul says, cutting himself a bite with his fork and chewing it thoughtfully. “And the jam’s good.”

“Not a bad bake,” Mary says. “But they should have rolled it while it was still warm.”

“This one looks wrong,” Paul says, frowning down at Pete’s bake. “They’ve dusted it with castor sugar rather than icing sugar.”

Mary hums and eats her bite slowly. “I like the crunch it gives, and it’s a nice, light bake with a good flavour.”

“No cracks,” Paul agrees, “and not a bad colour.” 

They pause and look at the next cake.

“Oh dear,” Mary says, looking worried, and Paul leans over to poke it with the tines of his fork. 

“Is this safe to eat?” he asks. “It looks like it fell on the floor.” 

The cameras zoom in on Bob’s face. It’s hadn’t fallen on the floor – but it had fallen. Bandages do not make it easy to grip things. 

“It doesn’t taste too bad,” Mary says, trying to look on the bright side. Bob goes a very strange colour. 

It comes as no surprise after that that Bob comes last, though the debate before Mary and Paul choose Patrick’s bake over Pete’s surprises both of the bakers concerned. 

In the end, Patrick’s wins by a whisker (the large pinch of salt he used in the cake counterbalances the sweetness of the jam wonderfully) but when the cameras look to Pete, he’s grinning even wider than Patrick.

—

_“Patrick deserved to win,” Pete tells the cameras earnestly. “Did you see his bake? It was beautiful. All golden and even and soft to the touch…” He trails off, his eyes slightly unfocussed. The cameras wait. Pete’s lips curl into a tiny smile. “Like sunshine,” he finishes at last, then notices the camera again. “Um. Yeah. He’s a great baker.”_

_He’s not looking at the camera any more, and when it pans around the viewers can see he’s watching Patrick walk across the lawn away from the tent._

—

 

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the best baker of them all?”

Mel is staring into space, the back of one hand pressed to her forehead theatrically. Sue frowns at her, her face crinkling with concentration. 

“What are you doing?” she asks. 

“Trying to find out who’ll be star baker,” Mel answers, her tone implying the unsaid _of course_. 

“In a carrot cake?” Sue asks slowly. 

“Well.” Mel shrugs. “We’re in a tent in a field. There aren’t any mirrors.”

“Hum…” Sue presses a finger to her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe we can do something about that.”

They look at each other and grin; then they turn and face the terrified contestants.

“Bakers!” Sue shouts. “Today's showstopper is a mirror glaze cake.”

“We want you to bake us something delicious moist and so shiny you can see your face in it,” Mel tells them.

“It should be a piece of cake.”

“But watch your bake or you could end up with seven years of bad luck.”

Sue grins at Mel. “And no one wants Paul around them for that long,” she says. The cameras zoom in on Lyndz’s very apparent shudder.

It makes for amazing TV. 

—

Mirror glaze cakes aren’t easy, Gerard knows this. 

There’s two elements – the mirror glaze which is blindingly obvious. It needs to be smooth, glossy, even. It has to astonish you with its beauty and shine. It can’t show any of the defects of the cake underneath. It can’t sink in or dimple. It needs to be as perfect as… well. As a mirror. 

And then there’s the cake. That has to be soft, yielding… delicious. 

There’s a couple of ways to go about it, and Gerard’s tried them both. 

You can top a sponge cake with a firmly set mousse, or you can cover a sponge cake with an insulating and perfecting primer layer of buttercream equivalent. 

It’s the cake and the mousse or cream that gives flavour – that fulfils the promises your eyes make. It’s the cake that gives Gerard sleepless nights. 

He knows he can glaze the fucking thing – he could glaze a bin lid at this stage – and he knows he can produce a cake that will that the judges’ breath away. What he’s not sure of is whether he can make something that they’ll actually want to put in their mouths. 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s going with his strengths this round. They’ve asked for a showstopper – they’re gonna get something that takes their breath away.

Gerard grins and starts creaming together the butter and sugar for his sponge. The cake he going to make might be simple in and of itself, but the glaze… well. It’s gonna be like all the stars in the sky. 

—

Even with a mirror glaze cake, you need a balance. 

There are all these sayings about having your cakes and eating them – Pete’s heard them all. But no one really wants a cake they can’t eat. It defeats the whole damn point of cakes. 

Still, whatever he does, it needs to be striking. That’s the whole point of the showstopper after all. 

He’s put a lot of thought into this and he wants to back something that has some sort of meaning – that isn’t just for show. His cakes tell stories, and this one shouldn’t be any different. It took time, but they were allowed to prepare for this and he thinks he’s come up with the perfect plan. 

He starts by making the genoise, whisking the eggs and sugar into a foamy cloud that will create the air filled foundation of the sponge. It’s only when he’s beaten it until it’s self-supporting that he sifts in the flour and the salt, giving in to his desire for theatrics and holding the sieve as high as he can and letting the flour fall like snow onto the beaten eggs. 

It’s mixing then, forcing himself to keep a light hand as he folds in the flour and melted butter, doing his best not to destroy the air bubbles he worked so hard to create. 

He doesn’t bother flavouring the cake. It would work against the other flavours he’s planned, but as soon as the genoise is in the oven, he makes a jelly of elderflowers sweetened with apple juice and puts it into the fridge to set. 

This is the step he’s most worried about, if he’s being honest with himself.

He’s increased the amount of gelatine he’s using, but when he practiced at the weekend it hadn’t set in time, and under the heat of the lights and the pressure of the tent, he’s worried it’ll fail again no matter how much gelatine he’s used. 

But he does it, and gets it into the fridge and then he can finally relax a bit. There’s only the frosting he’s using to sandwich and cover the cake and the glaze left to make – and the tiny matter of not letting the damn cake burn. 

He bites his lip, wondering what to do next and risks a glance around the tent to see how his competitors are doing. 

Frank is working up a frenzy on his bench. His tattoos are barely visible under a dusting of flour and he’s doing something complicated and unspeakably organic to a pumpkin. Lynz, on the other hand, is distilling mint into a series of glass beakers with all the focussed attention of a scientist. Pete can smell what she’s doing from here – the scent is pure and distinct over the riot of other smells in the tent. It even cuts through the coffee Mikey is brewing, the percolator bubbling away on the stovetop and his bench covered in an explosion of coffee beans. And Gerard… well.

Pete knows that edible glitter exists – he’s even used it on a few notable occasions – but he’s never seen that much glitter in one place before. He stares – not able to help himself. He wonders if Gerard’s actually using glitter instead of flour…

Across the way from him, Patrick meets his gaze and grins, clearly reading Pete’s thoughts off his face. 

_Glitter_ , Pete mouths, and Patrick makes an utterly unglamorous choking sound as he tries to suppress a giggle. The cake he’s baking is in the oven as well, but he’s busy doing something baffling with white chocolate and a cold marble work surface. Pete nods at him, willing him to understand he’s wishing him luck, and turns back to his own cake. 

He’s going to start of the glaze next, he thinks, and he looks over at the production assistant he discussed this with. She looks at him from under the striking frame of her dark, straight fringe and nods, the generous curve of her mouth twisting into a smile. 

It means the smoke alarms are off over him and he’s free to get on with the next stage of his plan. 

The thing is, Pete’s a showman at heart, and he can’t help but bask in the susurrus of indrawn deaths and the dozen set of eyes that are fixed on him as he pulls out a shiny stainless steel bucket and pops it on his bench with a clang. 

“Goodness,” Sue says, appearing next to him like she’s been summoned by an occult ritual. “Are you designing a horse drawn showstopper, Pete?” 

“No!” He’s laughing as he pulls out a sheaf of hay from where he’d hidden it in a cupboard earlier. “But I can see why you’re confused.”

“I’m never confused!” She starts poking at the hay with her trademarked insouciant interest. “So, what are you doing if you’re not about to feed a horse?” 

“Oh,” Pete says, his grin wide and lit with mischief. “That’s simple.” He pulls out a box of matches, and with as much ceremony as he can muster, strikes one. “I’m going to set fire to it.” 

He takes a second to enjoy the way Sue’s eyes widen before he drops the match with a flourish.

All in all, the resulting conflagration is fairly damn spectacular. 

—

Fire, Gerard thinks dismissively, is the mark of an amateur. Sure it’s showy, but it’s hardly elegant. 

He’s not quite sure what Pete’s trying to do, and he doesn’t really care, so he concentrates on his own cake and lets Pete’s bucket of flames burn itself out unwatched. 

His genoise is cooling on a rack while he whips up a batch of simple buttercream. He was almost tempted to try his hand at something more exciting, but his experiments in flavour have tended to end in catastrophic results that not even Mikey would touch. 

In the end, he decided to stick to something simple. 

Now though, he can see the vivid orange of Frank’s pumpkin mousse and smell its warm cinnamon scent from across the tent, and he is perilously close to regretting his decision. 

He looks down at his buttercream and squares his shoulders. It’s too late to second guess himself now and at least his is going to _look_ better than Frank’s at any rate. 

It doesn’t matter how impressive Frank’s mousse tastes – even from three benches away Gerard can see it looks like a mess – pitted and uneven. The mirror glaze is going to show up every one of those imperfections and Gerard grins to himself at the sheer number of those there are. 

No, Gerard decides. Much better to have a simple cake that’s perfectly finished than an overambitious shambles that looks like a dog’s already started chewing on it. 

His cake is going to look perfect. The glaze is going to be black as the night sky, but lit and swirled with glitter until it looks like galaxies are spiralling through their births and deaths on its surface. 

He smiles to himself. He’ll prove that you don’t need flames or drama or stupid experiments in flavour to create a showstopper. 

—

“Ten minutes,” Sue shouts. “Ten minutes bakers.”

Around her the tent is a hub of organised chaos and stress sweat. Grapes are being frosted, chocolate tortured into unnatural shapes. 

Frank is poking at the mirror glaze on his cake with a palate knife and a furious scowl; Amanda is drawing bold and expressive marks across hers using what looks like powdered charcoal. 

All of the bakers are busy, all of them are completely absorbed in the finishing touches of their cake (or, in Kristen’s case, cakes). Some of them, like Gerard and Bert, putting on final flourishes; some of them, like Bob and Frank, doing valiant battle with the mirror glaze itself. 

Sue raises an eyebrow at the camera. They’ll have to wait and see what the judges say, but there’s the making of good television here. 

—

 _Bob scowls at the camera. ”It's cake,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining to an idiot. “What's there even to say. It's cake. You bake it, you eat it.”_  
   
The camera waits, like it’s expecting him to say more. Bob stares at it, like he’s working out if he could take the cameraperson in a fight.  
   
Eventually the camera cuts away and looks at one of Bob’s dogs. It gives the camera a speaking look, raising the suspicion that the cameraperson might be carrying treats.  
   
(He is).  
   
—  
   
The worst bit of the whole showstopper experience is carrying your bake up to the judges’ table.  
   
Pete’s convinced from the second he takes hold of his plate to the second he puts it down in front of Mary and Paul that he’s going to drop the damn thing.  
   
It doesn’t even help that no one else has dropped theirs on the way up – not Kristen with her stand of tiny odd looking mirror cakes that she’d tried to pass off as “hand mirror” cakes. Not the elderly lady who looked like she needed a zimmerframe rather than to be carrying the rather passable apricot cake she’d baked. Not even Mikey-fucking-Way who seemed to be composed entirely of knees and elbows. Watching him carry his shockingly glazed mocha cake across the tent to be torn apart by the judges is like watching Bambi trying to stand up on ice –and still… Not even he drops his cake.  
   
He might have done better if he had done though, Pete considers gloomily. The judges _really_ weren’t kind to him when they tasted it.  
   
None of this really helps him though. He has to take his life (and cake) in his hands and make his own walk of doom up to the judges table.  
   
“So,” Mary says as he puts it down in front of them. “Tell us about your cake.”  
   
She looks unimpressed and Pete reminds himself that he’s actually quite proud of this bake.  
   
“It’s a standard genoise,” he tells her, “topped with a goats’ cheese mousse and glazed with ash.”  
   
“Interesting,” Paul says and cuts a slice. “It looks very effective. The white inside the black.”  
   
“It’s not very shiny,” Mary says doubtfully and Pete clenches his fists behind his back.  
   
“It’s not meant to be,” he says. “It’s meant to show how something pure can come from the ashes of disaster.”  
   
They switch their attention to him fully for a second, pinning him in place like scientists examining a bug.  
   
“I see,” Mary says, though Pete really doubts that she does.  
   
He’s almost tempted to say something, but the moment passes and Mary and Paul start dissecting the slice of cake with their forks, pulling it apart, sniffing it, before finally – carefully – eating a bite.  
   
Pete watches them apprehensively, only able to finally breathe when Mary’s face lights up in a smile.  
   
“Oh!” she exclaims. “Elderflower!”  
   
Pete nods. “I made an elderflower jelly and put tiny cubes of it into the mousse.” He pauses, worrying his lower lip between his teeth because he’s not sure he trusts them to understand the meaning of what he cooks. “It’s to show that you can find sweetness in the most unexpected places.”  
   
Mary nods at him alike she’s reassessing him. It makes Pete want to squirm.  
   
“And the goats’ cheese mousse,” Paul says, looking thoughtful. “What do the goats mean?”  
   
“Uh.” Pete considers spinning a lie about the untamed curiosity of goats, but honestly he can’t be bothered. “I thought it gave the cake a tang that was interesting.” He shrugs. “Sometimes a goat is just a goat.”  
   
There’s a small moment of disruption as Sue laughs and chokes on her mouthful of cake at the same time.  
   
“A truth for our times,” Mel says earnestly as Sue tries to scrape the escaped cake off the front of her shirt.  
   
“It’s certainly that,” Paul says.  
   
“Maybe a little too goaty for me,” Mary adds, “but an intriguing choice.”  
   
She nods her approval, and the audience is over.  
   
Pete makes his way back to his own bench in a haze of relief – uncaring (at least temporarily) of the outcome.  
   
It feels a bit like it takes forever for his breathing to return to normal, but it can’t because Patrick’s already bringing his cake up to the bench and Pete might not be calm, but he’s calm enough to watch as Mary and Paul smilingly bestow their praise on his pure white cake.  
   
There’s no need for Patrick to hide his cake under a cloud of ash, Pete thinks ruefully. He’s pure sunshine and white chocolate and he should expect the appreciation that Paul and Mary heap on him.  
   
As it is he looks almost shellshocked as he walks back to his bench, and when Pete catches his eye, he grins, bright and beautiful enough that Pete could almost believe he can feel something again.  
   
Bob doesn’t fare so well – there might be plenty you can do with bandaged hands, but glazing a cake is not one of those things. Hell, _making_ a cake doesn’t seem to be one of those things either.  
   
Mary and Paul seem to be trying their best to be nice to him, which is more damning than anything else they could have done, but from the scowl on Bob’s face he knows how badly he’s fucked up.  
   
Lynz does better – Paul likes the mint she’s used in her cake, even if Mary murmurs something about toothpaste – and both judges seem to like the flavour of Amanda’s cake, even if they both think she should have served the pips out of the blackberry mousse she made.  
   
Everyone catches their breath when Gerard takes his cake up to the front.  
   
It’s easily the most impressive looking cake of the day, and despite his pride in his own cake, Pete feels a twinge of jealousy and wonders if maybe he should have spent more time on the presentation.  
   
“This looks splendid,” Mary says. “The swirl of the galaxies is beautiful.”  
   
“Very impressive,” Paul says as he cuts into it. “What have you done with the cake?”  
   
“It’s a plain genoise,” Gerard tells them. “Covered with buttercream.”  
   
“Hum.” Mary chews thoughtfully. “Over-baked.”  
   
“It’s a bit tough,” Paul agrees, “and I’d like to have had better flavour in the cake.”  
   
“Still, easily the best looking glaze I’ve seen,” Mary says and Gerard walks back to his bench with his nose in the air, shooting a smug smile at Frank as he passes him.  
   
Not that that seems to bother Frank, though. He brings his own effort up the the front, and despite barely knowing the man, Pete feels himself cringe in secondhand embarrassment.  
   
It looks _awful_.  
   
Frank’s tried to glaze an orange looking mousse with an orange glaze, but the overall effect is like a pumpkin threw up on a plate.  
   
Both Mary and Paul look at it skeptically, but those looks fall away when they taste the cake.  
   
“This is really good,” Paul says, and Mary nods her agreement.  
   
“Exactly the sort of flavours I want to taste,” she says, smiling warmly at Frank.  
   
“It’s a shame about its appearance,” Paul says, poking at the cake. “This looks like the doorstep outside a pub on Sunday morning.” Sue and Mel make scarily similar expressions of disgust behind him. “But I really can’t fault the actual cake.”  
   
“Well done,” Mary tells Frank. “But maybe take a bit more care on how it looks next time.”  
   
The look Frank shoots Gerard on the way back to his bench is every bit as smug as the one Gerard had given him before, and Pete has to look away if he wants to stand any chance of hiding his own smile.  
   
—

_”Baking’s considered to be a woman’s job,” Amanda says. “So none of my friends expected me to do it.”_

_She chews the skin at the side of her thumb and stares into space._

_“I guess that’s why I took it up.”_

—

“The cakes have been sandwiched, rolled, and mirrored…”

“You’ve shown us the stars and the ashes…”

“You’ve turned lemon curd into a culinary napalm.”

“Somehow,” Mel says. “And I’m still not sure how you did that.” 

“Regardless,” Sue says. “Now it’s time for judgement.”

“Mary and Sue have tasted and conferred, and now I get to announce the star baker.” Mel looks at the assembled bakers and smiles. “Sometimes the simplest bakes are the best. It’s where you can see technical skill and knowledge about ingredients come into their own.” She grins at the camera. “Because of that, this week’s star baker is…” She pauses, still grinning and the camera pans along the nervous faces of the competitors. “Patrick Stump!”

The camera zooms in on Patrick’s face, on his unalloyed delight and surprise at the announcement. Next to him, Pete touches his arm and grins as wide as if he’d won the week himself. 

“But this is a game of winners and losers,” Sue says. “And it’s my job to tell you who leaves the competition this week.”

She looks at the bakers and the cameras focus first on Mikey, then on Kristen (whose tiny mirror cakes had not gone over well with the judges), and then on Bob. 

“The baker who leaves the tent this week,” Sue says, “has taught our Health and Safety specialist more than they wanted to know about preserves.” She smiles, sympathetically. “Bob, we wish you’d had longer but it wasn’t to be.”

The rest of the bakers crowd around Bob, and the credits roll to the sight of Mary and Paul joining the throng to congratulate and commiserate. 

Just before the video cuts off, Kristen offers Mikey one of her tiny mirror cakes.

The smile on his face as he takes it makes him look warm, almost approaching human, for the first time in the show.


	2. Week Two – Disloyal Order of Water Biscuits

[From The Guardian’s Web Archive: https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/live/]

Great British Bake Off, Episode Two – As It Happened  
I. Crow  
@theimmoralcrow

19:25  
Rhik is busy this week – getting married or something. I didn’t listen. But the upshot is you have me back. One week only! Buy while stocks last. 

19:26  
And it’s biscuit week! I shall be here, live tweeting as it happens. Am sure it will be over in a (ginger) snap.

20:01  
We’re off! The tent is billowing, Mary is radiant, Mel and Sue are clearly preparing themselves for a week of lady finger based puns… the only problem is the bakers.

20:02  
I mean – they’re mostly Americans. I think the message of biscuit week might be confusing – think of cookies, guys!

20:04  
And our first challenge – make 24 identical sweet biscuits. I’ll just be here with my cup of tea, waiting for something to dunk. 

20:06  
I’d argue this year’s outside chance is Frank. Not many vegans on this show, but those peanut butter cookies he’s baking look *good*

20:07  
(And because they’re vegan they’re unlikely to curdle from the look that Gerard is giving them. What on Earth has Frank done? Why the anger? TWEET AND LET ME KNOW)

20:08  
Patrick – last week’s star baker – is opting for Arlettes. Risky but impressive. Certainly classier than Mikey’s unicorn poop cookies

20:09  
Oh dear. Mary’s face. She does not approve of poo-cuits – no matter how much glitter’s going into them.

20:10  
Kristen making iced biscuits, just like the surgical-stocking-pink ones your Nan used to give you. Anyone else craving an iced gem? 

20:11  
Sue is (quite rightly) picking on Pete for his Jaffa cakes. The clue’s in the name, man! 

20:11  
Huh. Apparently they’re metaphors – the sweet treat that isn’t sure what it is and has a sour core. What *will* Paul make of that?

20:14  
Judging! It’s all gone a bit wrong for Patrick. Too hot in the tent and his butter melted. Basically Arlette of fuss over nothing.

20:15  
As I suspected, Paul isn’t moved by Pete’s metaphors. He’s more worried about the lack of proper chocolate coating. 

20:15  
I should feel glad that Pete and Patrick are comforting each other; instead this is making me feel worse for both of them. 

20:16  
Is Sue filling her pockets with Frank’s cookies? I think she is, even if Mary thinks they’re too crumbly. 

20:17  
It’s no surprise to anyone that Lynz wins this round – those dark chocolate covered ginger snaps look *amazing*

20:18  
Onwards! To… Millionaires’ shortbread? That’s a risky technical challenge. I mean, is it even a biscuit? 

20:20  
Consternation abounds. Gerard’s whispering to Mikey; Mikey’s more interested in calming Kristen down; Pete and Patrick look like school boys. Honestly, only Ray looks like he knows what he’s doing.

20:21  
Can we just take a moment to appreciate Ray? His calm, his cool… his thighs. *toasts you with tea*

20:25  
Forget everything I’ve said about this year being a disaster – Americans making shortbread is my new happy place #thankyougbbo

20:26  
And Gerard’s burned his caramel. We all saw that coming, right? (Except Gerard. Dear god, that boy has a better range of betrayed expressions than my new puppy)

20:28  
Oh dear. Amanda should have baked that shortbread a bit harder. I’m fairly sure she didn’t want the middle to fall out of her tin.

20:29  
Frank should have brought his caramel to a higher temperature – that looks a bit squidgy #wouldstilleatit

20:29  
Gerard’s slices look perfect. Who will be the first to mention he forgot to put the sugar in the shortbread do you think? 

20:33  
As expected, Patrick’s won the judges hearts again. Perfect shortbread beats ruined Arlettes apparently. 

20:34  
Can anyone else see that production assistant collecting the leftover shortbread? It’s not just me, right? I’ve not entered a fugue state where I’m hallucinating pretty women with crumbs around their mouths? Anyone?

20:35  
And now the showstopper! It’s *cue drumroll* gingerbread scenes! Honestly? I’m putting the tea down and moving to shots. This lot deserve it.  
   
20:36  
Most showstoppers rely on a combination of appearance and baking skill. Gingerbread is a test of imagination and serious construction skills.  
   
20:37  
Patrick’s going for a classic gingerbread house. Bless. I am sure it will be *perfect*  
   
20:38  
I’ve never seen anyone making jam to go with gingerbread before. Apparently Frank is making a graveyard. Of course he is.  
   
20:38  
Frank’s smiling so wide that even Sue seems unsettled. This might be the best TV I’ve ever seen.  
   
20:39  
Every time I think I’ve seen the best thing I’m proved wrong.  
   
20:39  
Is it Pete’s box of tricks? Is it Kristen’s princess castle? Is it Lynz’s invocation of the four elements? Is it even Bert’s recreation of Escher?  
   
20:40  
No. It’s RAY! He’s making a Game of Thrones map!  
   
20:40  
I mean, he’s mad and there’s no way he’ll do it in time… but you have to admire his vision.  
   
20:41  
The tent is a hive of activity, also full of bakers looking for spirit levels.  
   
20:41  
Biscuit week: where flour meets engineering.  
   
20:43  
There’s a discussion on the structural integrity provided by icing. Sue looks like all her Christmases have come at once.  
   
20:44  
Ooooo. Lynz is making different flavours of gingerbread for each of the four quarters – charcoal for earth, mint for air, lemon for water (for some reason), and chilli for fire.  
   
20:45  
Huh. Bert should have made a firmer icing. That is never going to hold his gingerbread together.  
   
20:46  
Wait! No! Bert!!! HE’S STOLEN KRISTEN’S ICING!  
   
20:46  
He walked past her bench and swapped bowls! Bert! You bastard!  
   
20:46  
Oh this is going to end badly.  
   
20:48  
Yep. Kristen can’t understand why her castle walls are collapsing. Someone should tell her!  
   
20:49  
And Ray! Beautiful Ray! There is *no way* this is going to be even halfway finished in time and he’s just realised that. I’ve never seen hair droop dejectedly before.  
   
20:50  
The tent is reaching fever pitch. Mikey’s more interested in comforting Kristen than in finishing his own bake. Good thing he’s only making a baseball pitch!  
   
20:50  
(Baseball is like cricket, right?)  
   
20:51  
If I have any fingernails left by the end of this show it will be a miracle. I can’t stop biting them. C’mon guys! Get your acts together!  
   
20:52  
And judging. We are in sight of the end. COURAGE MY DEARS.  
   
20:52  
They like Pete’s box of tricks, but there isn’t enough gingerbread apparently. It relies too much on what he’s put in the box. Clever, but too clever for Paul.  
   
20:53  
And Patrick seems to be… too much gingerbread? Very good, but doesn’t wow me, Mary says. What pleases these people?  
   
20:54  
Not Kristen’s sadly. This is a castle after the Huns have raided :( BERT YOU SHOULD CONFESS  
   
20:54  
Lynz’s bake is going over much better. “A good bake” “exciting flavours”. Sounds promising!  
   
20:55  
Neither Mary or Paul get the references to Gerard’s scene. Haven’t they ever seen Doom Patrol? Wait… the answer to that is a little too obvious.  
   
20:55  
Never mind, Gerard. We think you’re cool. Just a shame you forgot to put the dried ginger into your… um… bread!  
   
20:56  
Frank’s graveyard is much better received: “messy, but some of the best gingerbread I’ve tasted” Mary  
   
20:56  
Who knew we’d see the day Mary ate gooseberry jam out of a gingerbread grave? What a brave new world we live in.  
   
20:57  
She doesn’t like Bert’s Escher though. It doesn’t excite her. TAKE THAT YOU, ICING THEIF  
   
20:57  
Let’s look away before they reach Ray. I’m too full of feelings. He’s such a nice young man! You know your grandmother would approve of him!  
   
20:58  
And the judging is wrapping up. The serious discussion is almost over. Who will stay and who will go?  
   
20:58  
Lynz is star baker! An excellent choice – those biscuits and that showstopper were really strong bakes.  
   
20:59  
And yes. It’s Kristen who’s leaving this week. Too many bad bakes.  
   
20:59  
Goodness. That comfort hug with Mikey is going on a bit, isn’t it? (Could this be the first Bake Off wedding? I’m just here for the soap opera, you know)  
   
21:00  
And we’re done. Join us next week for Bread Week. Will Bert’s evil ways have found him out? Will Gerard manage to remember all his ingredients? Will Pete and Patrick give up the pretence and start sharing a bench so they can hold hands in peace?  
   
21:01  
Most importantly, will the production assistant ever recover from eating all that Millionaire’s Shortbread? ENQUIRING MINDS NEED TO KNOW.  
   
21:02  
Anyway, thank you for watching along with me! Continue to tweet me your thoughts and theories, and we’ll be back next week.


	3. Week Three – The Cakes Aren’t Alright

Patrick’s not sure how he’s ended up with a Pete.   
   
He’s never been much for needing people – he’s happy enough on his own. Solitary, his mom called him, but that makes him sound like he’s an anti-social weirdo or something. He’s not; he just enjoys his own company, that’s all. It’s why he took up baking in the first place. His mom was much less likely to nag him about _going out_ or _having friends over_ if he was kneading or proving dough than if he was playing a video game or hanging out in his room with a guitar.   
   
So he didn’t come here – to this show, to this _country_ – looking for friends.   
   
It seems he’s found them anyway – or one at the very least.   
   
  
   
“Pattycakes!” Pete says, launching himself at Patrick as soon as he sees him on the train on the way to week three’s shoot. “My baker man!”  
   
“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” Patrick asks, doing his best to catch and deflect Pete in one smooth movement.   
   
“When it stops being true,” Pete says, utterly unabashed. The deflection hasn’t worked; somehow Pete is sitting down in the window seat next to Patrick, leaving him with the aisle and the high risk of being walloped by people’s bags as they make their way down the train to the buffet car.   
   
It should make him angry, but instead Patrick finds himself hiding his smile, pretending to look for something in his bag so Pete doesn’t see.   
   
He has no idea why Pete’s decided to befriend him, no idea why Pete’s sitting with him now, but instead of resorting to his usual public transport regime of earphones-and-off-putting-glares he pulls out a bottle of water and actually listens as Pete starts talking to him.   
   
Not that _that_ makes Pete’s motivation much clearer. They don’t talk about baking or what they did on the last show or what they practiced for the next one. They don’t talk about home, or what they were before. But somehow conversation never flags and Patrick… well. He’s feeling happier than he’s felt in… a while.   
   
It’s like some sort of magic and Patrick starts to wonder if it would break the spell if he asked Pete if he wanted to meet up during the week. He’s fairly sure they’re both staying in London, and maybe, he thinks, looking at Pete’s earnest expression as he leans forward to make a particularly emphatic point, Pete would say yes.   
   
He’s just about to ask – he’s cleared his throat and everything – when he’s shifted forward in his seat by the train slowing down.   
   
“Here already,” Pete says, like Patrick hasn’t just been left grasping for words. “Time flies, Pattycakes.”  
   
Patrick can only nod, mute. Pete’s looking at him expectantly and it takes him a few too many painfully long seconds to realise it’s because he should be standing up and getting his bag.   
   
“Sorry,” he says, feeling his face flame as he stumbles to his feet. Pete’s got to be laughing at him, but he can’t make himself check. He grabs his backpack from the overhead storage and heads towards the door without checking if Pete is following.   
   
He might have even got as far as the minibuses the production company lays on if Pete hadn’t grabbed him by the arm as he was making good his escape down the platform.   
   
“Hold on,” Pete hisses, pressing him into a dusty alcove that owes something to the Victorian architecture of the station. “Just…”  
   
For a second Patrick thinks that Pete’s going to kiss him, but Pete’s attention is focussed behind his shoulder, and Patrick realises he’s watching as Frank and Gerard walk past, their ill-tempered snarling loud enough to hear even over the arrival and departure of trains.   
   
“Let them go first,” Pete says, stepping back to give Patrick space. “Don’t want to be stuck in a minibus with them for the next 40 minutes.”   
   
“No.” Ahead of them Frank and Gerard are completely caught up in whatever argument they’re having, Mikey trailing after them like an unwelcome second-thought. “Were they on the train together?”  
   
Pete nods. “I saw them when I got my coffee. Sitting together and everything.”  
   
“Why would they bother?” Patrick asks with a shudder.  
   
Pete chuckles. “I’m sure they’re getting something out of it,” he says, like he has some magic insight into what’s going on.   
   
Patrick just grunts in response, but Pete’s looking after them, his expression thoughtful.   
   
“Should we rescue Mikey?” he asks at last, sounding oddly hesitant, and Patrick feels something unfamiliar flare in his chest.   
   
“No?” he says slowly. “If we help him, we end up stuck with _them_.”  
   
Ahead of them Gerard and Frank look on the verge of blows. Pete nods even as his mouth turns down into a frown.   
   
“True,” Pete says, and they wait a full five minutes before they head to the front of the station for their own bus.  
   
It’s bread week, and Patrick hasn’t cooked a thing except bread all week. He’s probably put on half a stone at least, and is horribly aware of the soft pudge of his stomach next to Pete’s lean frame. Pete doesn’t seem to care though. He presses close to Patrick in the bus – too close maybe given they’re the only two in it – but Patrick can't bring himself to care.   
   
He settles into the seat and lets Pete settle into him as the driver brings them closer to the cameras and the lights and the bustle of the competition.   
   
The signature bake is breadsticks. Patrick’s been working on a four cheese version that he’s almost happy about, even if he’s a bit worried about the balance of mustard and cayenne.   
   
“What are you making?” he asks Pete as they start to assemble their ingredients.  
   
“Cinnamon, honey, and smoked salt,” Pete replies, like it’s nothing at all, and Patrick has to stop himself shaking his head in awe.   
   
He’s a fairly confident cook – he even knows he can do well when he has the chance to prepare and practice – but he’d never describe himself as the most adventurous baker.   
   
Pete on the other hand… well. His bakes fill Patrick with a sort of breathless, fearful awe. The never seem like they _should_ work, the ingredients are baffling and wrong, but Pete just smiles like he knows a secret no one else has got yet and the bakes… they work.   
   
Pete throws himself at his baking, open minded and whole hearted, and even when his breadsticks don’t rise and are a little too browned from the oven, Patrick wants to try them, and comes perilously close to snatching one from Pete’s hand when he offers them around after the judging’s done, distracted by the smell of them since they first went into the oven.   
   
Patrick would love to be able to bake like that, but the ideas never occur to him, and even when he tried once in the privacy of his own home – after he first met Pete – he didn’t have the confidence to follow through on his grand plans and he was left with an inedible disaster that he buried under coffee grounds in the trash and tried to forget about.   
   
Since then he’s stuck with what he knows – or at least what he can prepare for and learn. It’s why he dreads the technical challenge so much.  
   
This week though it’s bagels, as even as Mel announces it, he can feel the knot of uncertainty and dread in his chest melt away, and when he looks across at Pete they seem to be wearing twin smiles.   
   
It might be a challenge to someone from England, but Patrick thinks that bagels might be the first thing he baked in school. In fact, he barely even looks at the sparse instructions before he reaches for the flour, mixing together a stiff dough with a lot less water than a standard bread.   
   
Pete’s matching him step for step, his movements confident and relaxed like they’re second nature. Patrick can’t hold back the small, satisfied smile when he sees that Pete’s using only the smallest amount of water as well. It will make for a better taste and texture than the horribly wet dough that Gerard is grappling with on the bench in front.   
   
They end up at the fridge together, putting their labelled dough onto neighbouring shelves.   
   
“That’s it till tomorrow,” Pete says, and shoots Patrick a look from under his lashes. “Want a drink when we get back to the hotel?”   
   
Patrick shouldn’t, he knows that, but it’s a night in a Travelodge – he’s got to do _something_. So he nods and follows along behind Pete, not thinking about reasons or justifications, while they check in and stash their bags in their rooms and head to the dodgy bar on the ground floor.   
   
By the time they’ve got a drink the others have made their way to the bar as well. Not that any of them seem to have any attention to spare for anything other than their own dramas.   
   
For once it’s not even Gerard and Frank – Frank’s nursing a bottle of truly horrible beer (Patrick knows. He’s drinking the same beer) and debating the merits of the hotel menu versus getting a taxi into town.   
   
Gerard, on the other hand, is having a very intense conversation with Bert at the next table, and even though they both clearly think they’re keeping their voices down… well. Patrick meets Pete’s eyes and they sink down in their chairs, trying to will themselves invisible.   
   
“Fuck’s sake,” Bert growls. “Let it go already.”  
   
Gerard sighs and Patrick can hear him drumming his fingers on the table. “You stole her icing!” He sounds outraged, but Bert just laughs mirthlessly.   
   
“So what?”  
   
“So?” Gerard sounds horrified. “She was _thrown off_!”  
   
“And?” Bert sounds utterly unbothered, which seems to fan Gerard to new heights of rage.  
   
“And you let her!”  
   
“What was I meant to do?” Bert leans back in his chair and sips his beer, his eyebrow quirked in question.   
   
“You should have told them!” Gerard says, but he’s sputtering and he doesn’t sound sure. “You should have gone instead of her.”  
   
“Mmmmm.” Bert puts his beer gently down on the table. “But why would I have done that?”  
   
“Why?” Gerard blinks at him. “Because… Mikey’s unhappy she’s gone.”  
   
“So?” Bert grins, and it chills Patrick to the marrow. “Why should I care?”  
   
Gerard splutters. “Because… Mikey?”  
   
“I don’t give a shit,” Bert says, sounding utterly conversational. “If he likes her, he should ask her out. He’s a grown up – he can look after his own life. He doesn’t need you… and he certainly doesn’t need me.”  
   
“He does need me!” Gerard says, sounding deeply wounded.   
   
“Bullshit.” Bert’s giggle is high-pitched and deeply disconcerting. “He needs to be treated like an adult. Seriously, you came all the way over here because he can’t be trusted to be on his own? That’s pathetic.”  
   
“Don’t call him pathetic,” Gerard snaps, and Bert actually laughs at that.   
   
“I’m not.” He leans in towards Gerard and points his finger. “I’m calling _you_ pathetic.”   
   
Gerard shoves himself back in his chair. “I’m pathetic? Fuck you.”

“Isn’t that the other way around?” Bert asks with a smirk, and Gerard stands up, clearly furious.  
   
“Not anymore,” he snaps. “You want to fuck someone, try your own hand, cuz I’m not fucking touching you again.”  
   
It starts out as a hiss, but the last words are almost a shout. Gerard doesn’t seem to care. He storms out of the bar, his head held high, not looking back to see Bert’s reaction.   
   
The room is falls utterly silent as he leaves. Frank’s eyes are fixed on the door and he looks like he’s considering following Gerard but Bert just looks pleased with the stir he’s created.  
   
He finishes his drink and stretches lazily, smirking at everyone as he slouches up to the bar and makes an obvious and well-received pass at the bar staff.   
   
“Let’s head out,” Pete mutters, and Patrick nods gratefully.   
   
They manage to actually make it outside before the giggles hit.  
   
“Like a fucking soap opera,” Patrick manages and Pete just holds onto him and laughs.   
   
It fills Patrick with a peculiar, bubbling lightness that lasts through a dinner of suspiciously British pizza and worryingly cheap wine and back to the hotel.   
   
“This is me,” he says, his fingers on the door handle and his heart in his throat.   
   
“Yeah.” Pete bites his lip, his eyes darting to the side. “I mean…”  
   
“You wanna come in?” Patrick manages in a burst of bravery. “I’ve only got those little coffee packages they give you with the room, but…”  
   
“Sure,” Pete replies, nearly as breathless as Patrick feels. When Patrick opens the door, Pete pushes past to get in, close enough that Patrick can smell the remains of his cologne on his skin.   
   
Coffee is awkward. Like first date awkward in a way that Patrick hasn’t felt for years, but he can’t stop smiling, and neither, it seems, can Pete.   
   
It’s not like they even talk about much – they chat about the best places to get bagels in Chicago, and from there it’s only a small step to swapping stories about friends at home, gigs they’ve both seen… It’s fun, and Patrick’s only slightly alarmed when he wakes up the next morning with Pete wrapped around him like a particularly affectionate octopus.   
   
This is his life now, he decides as he brushes his teeth. He might not have meant to end up with a Pete, but since he seems to have found one anyway, he can’t bring himself to regret anything.   
   
His nighttime companion aside, it’s a weird Sunday. They still have the technical challenge to finish as well as the traditional Sunday showstopper. It means an earlier start and a longer day, but Patrick doesn’t care.   
   
He shapes his bagels around his hand with a light heart – even watching Mikey punch too-small holes through solid bagels with the end of a spoon can’t dent his good humour.   
   
It’s no surprise that Mikey’s bagels are solid – it’s something more of a surprise that he manages to bake them so they’re burnt on the outside and yet somehow raw in the middle. Patrick just shakes his head and gets on with planning the final flourishes for his show stopper while Pete comforts a disconsolate Mikey.   
   
This week they need to make bread art, and Patrick’s going for the classic harvest sheaf. It’s just a simple dough, but in a tent where temperature is so variable, it takes skill to shape it and bake it so that it contains form as well as being a good bake.   
   
It takes all of Patrick’s concentration, although he’s vaguely aware of Pete working away next to him and Mel and Sue’s excited reaction to whatever he’s shaping. Whatever it is, he’s sure it will be stunning and he’s not surprised when the time runs out and he finally looks up to find that Pete has sculpted two llama-like monsters that are bearing a cornucopia between them.   
   
It’s impressive and the judges are impressed and Pete deserves the star baker award – Patrick can see that.   
   
It’s a shame about Mikey – but even if he’s being charitable (and he probably isn’t) Patrick can’t see what the hell it’s meant to be, and he makes the judges’ choice easy for them. At least Patrick manages a sympathetic pat on the arm for him when the results are announced before he’s hustled out of the way by Gerard and the rest of the bakers, all intent on comforting Mikey. It’s only when Patrick takes a step back from the melee to congratulate Pete that he realises that Pete’s at the heart of the throng, his arm around Mikey’s shoulders as he talks quietly to Ray.   
   
Patrick turns away, his stomach twisting, and starts to clear up his bench, letting the familiar rituals calm him down.   
   
“They do that for you.”  
   
Pete’s voice makes him jump, but he turns around shrugging and finally able to smile.   
   
“It feels rude,” he says, and then remembers. “Well done!”   
   
“Eh.” Pete looks away, scuffing the toe of his shoe across the ground. “It was okay.”  
   
His cheeks are a bit pink though, and when Patrick butts their shoulders together, he smiles, small and shy.   
   
They end up collecting their bags together without discussion and head to the minibus, only to find Mikey waiting with a frown on his face.   
   
“Hey.” Pete grins at Mikey. “You been abandoned?”  
   
Mikey shrugs eloquently. “Gee’s vanished with Frank,” he says, and rolls his eyes. “God knows when he’ll show up again.”  
   
“Yeah?” Pete bites his lip like he’s making a decision. “Well… Fuck him then.” He grins, wide and full of mischief. “Catch the train back with us. We’ll get a few drinks, maybe some dinner…”  
   
Mikey looks at him speculatively. “Really?” he asks.  
   
Pete nods, knocking his arm against Patrick’s. “Course,” he says, madly enthusiastic. “Me and Patrick would really love you to, wouldn’t we, ‘Trick?”  
   
“Yeah,” Patrick says, hoping against hope that his lack of enthusiasm isn’t as obvious to Mikey as it is to him. “That’d be swell.”   
   
Mikey frowns and squints at the horizon, like it might suddenly disgorge Gerard. It doesn’t, and he squares his shoulders.   
   
“I’ll do it,” he says, picking up his bag. “He can look after himself for once.”  
   
“That’s a boy,” Pete says, steering him onto the minibus with a hand between his shoulder-blades. “Now let’s hit the road before they catch us up.”   
   
The problem, Patrick thinks, is that Mikey’s effortlessly cool. He’s never pink, or sweaty, or unable to fit into his jeans. He doesn’t just have the one thing he can do (baking), the one friend in this stupid country (Pete), and a lonely flat to come home to.   
   
Patrick does his best not to think about that and to keep up with the stream of inconsequential chat, but they’ve barely reached Reading before he’s put his headphones on and closed his eyes in case that makes the whole ordeal easier to tolerate.   
   
  
   
The train’s barely stopped before he’s on his feet.   
   
“I forgot,” he says, to the slightly surprised expressions on Pete and Mikey’s faces. “I’ve got to phone my mom. Um…” He’s not sure what he’s hoping they say. “So, I can’t come for dinner.”  
   
“Okay,” Pete says slowly. “Sure… I’ll see you in the week?”  
   
Patrick nods, his lips a tight line and he’s off the train before Pete and Mikey have even stood up.


	4. Week Four – Long Live the Car Crash Bakes

Frank really fucking hates Gerard.  
   
For a second, when he first got to this stupid tent in this stupid country, he’d heard Gerard’s voice and thought _home_ , thought they might be friends.   
   
That’d lasted about as long as it took Gerard to actually talk to him, and now, when he goes into the tent and finds that the producers have given him the bench across from Gerard, all he feels is irritation and a sense of impending doom.   
   
Not that he’ll give Gerard the satisfaction of knowing he’s got to him. Of course he fucking won’t.   
   
At least Ray is on the bench in front of him now. There’s something about Ray – about the skill that is apparent in every move of his long fingers – that makes Frank want to impress him.   
   
“Hey.” Ray seems delighted that Frank’s been moved closer to him at least. “You ready for dessert week?”  
   
“Hell, yeah.” Frank grins back at him and does his best to look like he’s not bothered by the cameras, or Gerard, or this stupid fucking country with its mad food culture. “Never been readier.”  
   
“Sure,” Ray says, grinning like he can see through every one of Frank’s layers of denial. “I believe you, dude.”  
   
“Damn right,” Frank mutters, and turns away to hide his smile as he starts to assemble his ingredients for the signature bake.   
   
“Asshole,” Ray says under his breath, but he’s grinning as well, so Frank doesn’t really care.  
   
In any case, he’s too busy setting out his ingredients. Sticking with vegan ingredients isn’t always possible, but he’s still doing his best when he can, and by the time he’s set everything out Ray is watching him with a small frown on his face.   
   
“You’re not using eggs?” he asks. Frank shakes his head.  
   
“Not this time. This time I think I got it.”  
   
“What’s harder? Not using them or having to use them?”  
   
It’s almost the sort of bullshit question that he always gets asked by non-vegans, but Ray looks genuinely interested, and Frank respects his baking ability enough to give him the benefit of the doubt.   
   
“It’s probably using them,” he says, and even to his own ears it sounds like a bit of a confession. “I mean, I know all the recipe books use things like eggs, but I’ve grown up without them and…”  
   
“You were vegan as a kid?” Ray says, sounding impressed. “Cool. Was it your parents or…”  
   
“Allergies,” Frank replies, shrugging. “Meant that my mom couldn’t use eggs or dairy when she cooked for me and when I got old enough…” He looks down at his ingredients, not even sure why he’s telling Ray this. “I kinda took over.” He glares at Ray in case this makes him seem weak or something. “She was a single mom with a job. It was the least I could do.”  
   
“I get that,” Ray says, nodding. “I always wanted to help my mom with my brothers and…”  
   
“You pick it up, don’t you?”  
   
Ray and Frank both turn around, shocked, and Gerard takes what seems to be an involuntary step backwards.   
   
“Sorry,” he says, holding his hands up. “I didn’t mean to…”  
   
“S’okay,” Ray says, because apparently he’s full of sunbeams and love for everyone. Even greasy-haired jerks who don’t deserve it.   
   
“I just…” Gerard looks down. His nails, Frank notices, have been bitten down to the quick. “It’s how I learned from El… From my grandmother.”  
   
Ray nods. “It’s how most of us learn,” he says, and they both turn to look at Frank as if they expect him to have something to add, but Sue (who is an angel. Frank believes this with all his heart) cuts them off with the opening spiel, and that’s it for conversation for the next two hours.   
   
Really, it doesn’t matter what he says to Ray. It’s always gonna be a challenge baking without using traditional ingredients.   
   
Frank’s practiced like hell, and he knows he can make something edible ninety-nine times out of a hundred… but things just don’t _look_ the same, and in this environment, they don’t just have to taste _good_ , they have to taste like the judges expect them to taste. Frank knows to his cost that _good_ and _what people are expecting_ can be two very different things.   
   
So he doesn’t have the time to talk to Ray; he doesn’t have the time to wonder what the fuck is going on between Pete and Patrick on the benches behind him, even though Patrick’s bad mood is almost palpable and Pete’s confusion is hanging heavier in the air than the smell of burning caramel from Bert’s bench. He doesn’t even have the time to keep an eye on stupid Gerard and his stupidly predictable chocolate mousse cake that…  
   
“You’re using a tablespoon of chilli instead of a teaspoon,” he hisses across the aisle to Gerard, biting back the _idiot_ he wants to say.   
   
“Shit.” Gerard’s brows snap together in consternation. “I knew it wasn’t right but I…”   
   
He reaches out and starts scraping the excess chilli powder out of the bowl so he can fix everything before it goes tits up, but then he pauses, suddenly awkward.   
   
“Thank you,” he says to Frank. “You didn’t have to…”  
   
“Shut up.” Frank turns away, his anger suddenly flaring, though he’s not sure if it’s at Gerard or himself. “It was nothing. Just don’t mention it.”  
   
“Okay,” Gerard says hesitantly. “Sure.”  
   
True to his word he keeps quiet, but every time Frank looks up, it seems like Gerard is looking at him out of the corner of his eye.   
   
Still, when Mary compliments Gerard on the subtle heat to his cake, calling it the best flavoured cake he’s baked so far, Frank can’t stop himself from grinning at Gerard, and maybe, he thinks, he doesn’t hate Gerard quite as much as he thought he did.   
   
The feeling is unsettling, and it still hasn’t passed by the afternoon. At least Pete and Patrick are providing some sort of consistency, Frank thinks as he tries to concentrate on his creme caramel technical challenge to the gentle strains of Pete’s pleading attempts at jokes and Patrick’s bad tempered monosyllables in reply.   
   
In fact he’s glad when the day is over and he can rush back to his hotel room, not bothering to wait for the others, and claiming a stomachache as his reason for avoiding everyone for the rest of the evening.   
   
He’s managed to claw back some equanimity by the morning, and when Gerard grins at him and asks if he’s feeling any better he can even manage to answer fairly amiably.  
   
“Sure,” he says, trying to school his face into something believable. “Must have been a twenty-four hour thing.”  
   
“Mmmm.” Gerard nods, but he doesn’t look wholly convinced. “Well… at least you’re okay.”  
   
The showstopper is a baked Alaska, which means ice-cream and merengue, and Frank’s fairly sure he can manage it, but eggless merengue is a pain in the ass and  
vegan ice-cream can have a weird fucking texture if it goes wrong.   
   
Anyway, it gives him an excuse not to talk to anyone. Concentration. It’s a thing.   
   
Although maybe he’s more of a glutton for punishment than he gives himself credit for, because when Gerard throws a raspberry at him, he looks up, his head quirked to the side in enquiry.   
   
“What flavour ice-cream are you making?” Gerard whispers.   
   
“Yuzu and mango,” Frank replies in a low voice. “And I guess it’s a sorbet really.”  
   
“Oh cool.” Gerard frowns down at his own ice-cream. “I’m doing caramel and coffee, but I don’t know if I should make the sponge coffee or not.”  
   
“Chocolate might work best,” Frank says reluctantly. “’s gonna give a good blend of flavours at least.” He squints across at Gerard’s workbench. “You’re using coffee with the meringue?”  
   
“Yeah.” Gerard gestures vaguely to the espresso powder, waiting for him. “Just wasn’t sure what to do about the sponge.”  
   
“Chocolate for sure,” Frank says. “That’ll stop the coffee overwhelming the ice-cream. Oh.” He grabs the Malvern salt crystals from his bench and throws them across to Gerard. “And put a good pinch of this into your caramel before you swirl it through the ice-cream.”  
   
Gerard nods, and Frank starts to turn back to his own work, a warm buzz of satisfaction in his chest.   
   
“Well, isn’t that _sweet_.” Bert’s snide tone is like an unwelcome wash of ice-water and Frank is already scowling as he turns to look at him.   
   
“What?” he snaps. “Got a problem?”  
   
“Oh, no.” Bert steps back, showing his palm in a gesture of surrender that does nothing to rob his smile of its bitterness. “It’s positively heart-warming to see you helping each other. Mind you…” He leers across at Gerard. “Maybe Gee is looking for a new sidekick now he’s lost his brother? And you do look like you’re good with your hands.”  
   
He makes a hand gesture that evokes an “Oooo, I say” from Sue on the other side of the tent and a flurry of activity as the production assistants scent _drama_ and start to converge on their benches.   
   
It’s exactly the sort of coverage Frank doesn’t want to be involved in. He turns away from Bert and becomes very interested in getting the right consistency for his mango pulp. In fact, he only notices Gerard when Gerard actually reaches out and rests his hand on his shoulder.   
   
“Your salt flakes,” Gerard says, giving him an indecipherable look, and Frank can barely manage to nod back before Gerard returns to his own space.   
   
He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though. He has to get his sorbet into the freezer before he starts on his sponge if there’s going to be a chance of getting it to freeze.   
   
It’s the timing of Baked Alaska that’s the real challenge – getting the ice-cream to set, the sponge to cool… bringing it all together so each mouthful is a combination of toasted merengue, light sponge and refreshing ice-cream. So, he keeps his head down and concentrates on what he’s doing, barely even looking up until he’s spooned the sorbet onto the sponge and put it into the freezer to chill.  
   
Around the tent the other bakers seem to have the same idea. Gerard smiles at him, and Frank moves to the side so he can use the freezer shelf underneath Frank’s own.  
   
Next to him Amanda is struggling to fit her lime-green monstrosity into the confined space of the freezer, and Frank watches as she moves Bert’s cake to the bench behind her to give herself room to manoeuvre. She clearly means to put it back in afterwards… except Sue calls her name, summoning her for her piece-to-camera and she dashes off, leaving Bert’s dessert rapidly warming under the heat of the lights.   
   
Frank bites his lip and looks around for Bert. The guy’s an asshole, but if Frank judged people for that, well… he wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror for a start.   
   
He heads across the tent to where Bert is chatting up a seemingly disinterested Lynz, fully intent on telling him about the cake, but Bert scowls across at him as he approaches.  
   
“What?” he snaps as soon as Frank is close enough to hear. “You fed up of your little boyfriend already?” He pauses and sneers. “Though I guess he’s not the little one, is he?”   
   
Frank stares at him, his good intentions warring with his desire to smack Bert in the mouth. “Nah,” he says at last. “I was coming over to ask Lynz if she needed to borrow some of my freeze-dried raspberries.” He grins at Lynz. “I saw you dropped yours earlier, and I got some spare.”  
   
“Thanks.” She smiles at him, wide and beautiful. “I think I rescued enough to finish decorating.”  
   
“Cool.” Frank nods at her. “If you change your mind, let me know.”  
   
He heads back to his bench and tries not to look at the growing puddle of ice-cream underneath Bert’s Alaska as he assembles the ingredients for his merengue.   
   
He’s going to make a raspberry merengue, and he pours about half his dried raspberries into a blender to grind them to a powder. Then he whips up the merengue and gathers his courage together, hoping that this time the extra weight of the fruit doesn’t deflate the aquafaba he’s used instead of eggs.   
   
He doesn’t get to find out though – Gerard’s at his side, grabbing his wrist before he can dump the powered fruit into the mixture.   
   
“Wait,” Gerard says, sounding slightly out of breath after his dash across the tent. “Are you really going to just mix that in?”  
   
“Of course.” Frank blinks at him in confusion. “What else am I meant to do?”  
   
“Use it to line the icing bag?” Gerard says slowly, like he's not sure how Frank could think there was another option.   
   
“Icing bag?” Frank repeats back, and is only slightly comforted by the look of dawning horror on Gerard’s face.  
   
“You were just going to dump the merengue on the ice-cream?” Gerard asks, sounding honestly horrified. “Oh, God, no.”   
   
He dashes back to his own bench, returning with a clear plastic bag that even Frank can recognise as a piping bag.   
   
“Look,” he says, and turns the bag inside out. “You put stripes of the raspberry up the side, then turn the bag the right way around then fill it like this…” He trails off, his tongue stuck out between his teeth as he concentrates on piling the merengue on top of the raspberry. “Now… all you need to do is to pipe it onto the sorbet.”  
   
“Sure.” Frank takes the bag, completely unable to keep the confusion and uncertainly off his face or out of his voice. “Um… thanks?”  
   
“No problem.” Gerard looks down at his feet, his cheeks slightly pink under the heat of the lights. “I mean, you helped me with the ice-cream…”  
   
He looks really unsure, and Frank’s reached out before he can stop himself.   
   
“Seriously,” he says, trying to school his face into doing something sensible. “Thank you.”  
   
Gerard nods at that, but he looks pleased, and as he watches Frank make his first ham-fisted attempt at piping merengue, he nods like he approves of the sight.   
   
It means that Frank looks genuinely shocked when there is a shriek from behind him.  
   
“My Alaska!” Bert is standing, looking at the melted mess on the bench. “Who took my fucking Alaska out of the fucking freezer?” He swings around and points at Gerard, poison in his eyes. “Did you do this, you fucking fag? Just because…”  
   
“Oh, God.” Amanda comes up next to Bert. “Bert, I am so sorry… It was me.”  
   
“What?” He spins around, Gerard forgotten now. “You did _what_?”  
   
“I couldn’t get mine in the freezer,” she says, looking honestly contrite. “So, I took yours out and…”  
   
“You stupid fucking bitch,” Bert snaps, cutting her off mid-explanation. “You…”  
   
“Hey.” Sue strides across the tent and stares at him sternly, stopping him from whatever douchebag thing he was intending to do next. “There’s no need for that.”  
   
“Of course there is!” Bert glares at her, then gestures at Amanda. “That stupid cow has sabotaged my bake.”  
   
“So fix it,” Sue says reasonably.  
   
“How?” Bert asks, not even bothering to try and keep the disdain from his face. “It’s ruined.”  
   
“There’s unmelted bits.” Sue points. “Put merengue on those and blowtorch the outside.”  
   
“Fuck that.” Bert grabs the merengue and strides across to the bin. “This can go where it belongs.” He dumps it into the trash and retreats to his bench, scowling at anyone and everyone who tries to come close.   
   
 _It’s a mistake_ , Frank thinks. Mary and Paul would give points for effort – hell, they’re _British_. Bert might have even got the sympathy vote. But they don’t have time for dramatics, he suspects, and when the judges come to Bert’s turn Frank’s almost pleased to be proved right.   
   
“Such a shame,” Mary says. “But we can’t judge what isn’t there.”  
   
“Yeah,” Paul agrees. “We could have tasted the ice-cream and sponge at least, but…”  
   
Bert returns to his bench with a black cloud over him, and Frank takes care not to catch his eye.   
   
As if that isn’t bad enough, the lingering air of resentment nearly brings down Patrick as well.  
   
He’s up for judging next after Bert, and distracted by the outburst, he doesn’t notice the spilled ice-cream on the floor by Bert’s bench. He slips and for a second Frank thinks that his Baked Alaska will join Bert’s in being unjudgable, but before Frank can even move to help, Pete is next to Patrick, steadying first him and then his dessert.   
   
If anything, Patrick looks more shocked by that than he did by his near fall, but there isn’t time for him to say anything. With a small smile Pete helps him carry his dessert up to the judging table before melting away.   
   
After that it’s almost an anti-climax when Frank brings his own Baked Alaska for judging. He’s not really expecting much… this is a dessert that revolves around eggs and his has been made without, but…  
   
“I like the piping,” Paul tells him. “It’s good to see you making an effort with the presentation for a change.”  
   
“And the sharpness of the fruit…” Mary nods happily, helping herself to another spoonful. “Such a lovely contrast to the sweet merengue.”   
   
Frank goes back to his bench in a daze, barely even noticing when Gerard’s flavours earn special praise from Paul.   
   
He can’t ignore it when he wins star baker, though. He stands there, almost unable to believe what Mel has said, and it only even starts to sink in when Gerard grabs him in a rough hug and tells him he deserves it.   
   
In fact, he doesn’t even realise that Bert’s been thrown off until after the filming has finished and Gerard’s chattering away next to him as they head back towards the taxis and trains and real life.   
   
“Mikey’s going to be so pleased,” Gerard’s saying when Frank manages to zone in on his words. “He’s still seeing Kristen, you know, and she would never have been thrown off if…”  
   
He’s a dork, Frank realises with a shock. Not a jerk or a pretentious asshole… or not _just_ those things at least. He smiles and nods in the right places as they walk along, trying to work out just what he’s actually won this week. No matter what else, Gerard doesn’t leave his side until they reach London, and even then he hesitates, like he’s reluctant to let Frank go.  
   
“I’ll see you next week,” he says at last and Frank nods.  
   
“I’m looking forward to it already,” Frank tells him, and he’s shocked to discover he’s telling the truth.


	5. Week Five – I want to bake like Uma Thurman

Until six weeks ago, Pete had no idea what a Yorkshire pudding even was.   
   
Now, however, he’s practiced enough that he can pass it off as a signature bake.   
   
If only all his confusion was as easily resolved.   
   
It turns out that making a batter pudding out of eggs, flour and milk is nothing compared to making Patrick talk to him.   
   
He’d hoped that things had been fixed last week when he’d stopped Patrick from ending up face first in his showstopper, but the fragile warmth in Patrick’s face had melted away to nothing by the time they got to the station, and Pete had had to face the long ride home alone.   
   
He hadn’t sat next to Pete this morning either, making it the third train journey in a row. Well, fourth if you counted the end of week three when Pete had needed to comfort Mikey, but Pete doesn’t count that because the only reason he hadn’t sat next to Patrick then was that there weren’t any four seaters spare. He’s not worried about _that_ – there’s no way Patrick would have wanted Mikey to be sitting on his own after being knocked out and Gerard had been so busy squabbling with Frank that he’d missed the train altogether. So, Pete had taken one for the team and brought Mikey back to his place via three pubs and one cocktail bar. By the time he’d poured Mikey through his front door he was ready for bed and regretting his charitable impulse.   
   
Really, he’s not sure why Patrick has been avoiding him. Also, he doesn’t really care. That’s the lie he’s been telling himself every night for the past week and he’s sticking to it – even if he has to admit that the show doesn't feel as fun without Patrick’s companionship.  
   
For someone who looks so sweet and quiet, Patrick is delightfully bitchy, and now that he doesn’t seem to be talking to Pete, Pete finds the whole show much harder to cope with. He can’t even seem to manage to summon up enthusiasm for his signature bake of mackerel and horseradish filled Yorkshires.   
   
At least that means that it isn’t a crisis when he drops his bowl of grated horseradish onto the floor as he’s mixing the cream into it. It splatters, making a truly horrendous mess, but honestly, looking at it, he feels nothing, just a resigned understanding that he’s going to be the baker who leaves this week.   
   
“Shit.” Patrick’s voice behind him makes him jump, and he kinda hates himself for the instinctive leap his heart makes. But instead of a forbidding frown, Patrick is smiling at him almost shyly, gesturing to his bench with one hand.   
   
“I’m making beef and horseradish,” he says, and it’s so unexpected that it takes Pete a couple of seconds to parse the words.   
   
“Um,” he says at last, painfully aware of what an idiot he sounds. “That sounds nice?”  
   
Patrick looks at him in confusion for a few seconds, then shakes his head.  
   
“No,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a child. “I meant that you could use half of my horseradish for your bake.” He glances down, the pink rising in his cheeks. “I mean, um, if you want.”  
   
“Really?” Pete isn’t going to ignore an olive branch like this – not even if it’s made of horseradish. “Are you sure?”  
   
“Yeah.” Patrick shuffles his feet; Pete wonders when he started finding embarrassment delightful. “I, um, have enough and everything, and…” He gestures at the mess on the floor at Pete’s feet. “You aren’t going to be able to use yours.”  
   
“Yeah!” Pete says, his words starting to fall over themselves in his eagerness. “Of course. If you have enough?”  
   
He’s nearly sure that the warmth bubbling through his chest is down to getting to stay in the competition and nothing to do with the stupid pink-cheeked boy in front of him.   
   
Whatever the truth of that, the tent seems lighter somehow and it’s easier to concentrate on his bake, on blending land and sea together on something as light as air, with Patrick smiling at him again.   
   
Not everyone in the tent is having such catharsis though.   
   
“That’s it.” Lynz glares at her batter with enough venom that it would curdle – except it has already. “I’m cursed.”   
   
“What’s wrong?” Amanda asks her, crinkling her brow in confusion. “Who’s cursed you?”  
   
“No idea.” Lynz pours away the mess in her bowl and reaches for a new carton of eggs. “But everything’s gone wrong.”  
   
“Yeah,” Patrick mutters. “Cuz putting chili and lime juice in your puddings is a sure-fire way to success.”  
   
Pete chokes back a laugh and has to use his best innocent face when Lynz turns to glare at him.   
   
“Maybe things will get better now?” he suggests, and Lynz huffs as she turns away.   
   
They don’t, though – or not for her at least. Her Yorkshires fail to rise quite spectacularly – it’s only that Pete knows what they’re meant to be that he doesn’t think they’re pancakes. It’s probably because her fat wasn’t hot enough (Pete learnt that lesson the hard way) but it doesn’t stop her being named and shamed at judging.   
   
Pete would feel worse for her except Mary has given him his best feedback of the show so far, and Patrick looks as pleased for him as he feels himself.  
   
It means that he’s in a much better mood as they go into the technical challenge – a dozen identical stroopwaffle – and for a miracle everything goes right, from the caramel to the batter and Paul actually shakes his hand when it’s announced his waffles are the best of the afternoon.  
   
“Not as good as yours,” he tells Patrick as they wander away from the tent together at the end of the day.   
   
Patrick laughs and knocks him with his shoulder. “They were more even.” He shrugs. “I had the temperature wrong for at least three of mine.”  
   
“You did better than Lynz, though,” Pete says loyally, and Patrick laughs again.  
   
“I should hope so. She had all of her caramel in the first eight waffles and none in the last lot.”  
   
Pete nods – they had been sadly lumpy and uneven affairs and had received a corresponding dose of scorn from Paul.   
   
“Do you think Lynz’s been cursed?” he asks thoughtfully.  
   
“No.” Patrick sounds adamant. “It was just bad luck.”  
   
“The Yorkshires,” Pete concedes. “Maybe. But the stroopwaffles?”  
   
“It was just bad luck,” Patrick says again, but he sounds less sure this time.  
   
“Pattycakes!” The name slips out unbidden. “It stuck to one of the lights and caught fire! She only just missed having it drop onto her head!”  
   
“Okay,” Patrick says reluctantly. “ _Really_ unlucky then.”  
   
“She wasn’t even flipping them,” Pete says, bemused and Patrick bursts into peals of laughter that make Pete finally fully relax.   
   
It means the conversation flows easily and the only reminder that things have been awful is when they get to the hotel and reach Patrick’s room.   
   
A couple of weeks ago they would have chilled out together or gone for dinner, but now everything turns awkward again. Pete fights to find the right words, to ask Patrick to share a pizza or go grab a Nandos or something, but he can’t find the words and Patrick’s smile is getting smaller and tighter with every passing second.   
   
“So…” Patrick drags the word out. “Have a good evening?”  
   
Pete nods. It feels like Patrick’s waiting for something from him, but his words have all abandoned him and he doesn’t have anything he can say.   
   
“Right.” Patrick turns away, fumbling with his key card, his shoulders tight. “See you tomorrow then.”   
   
He doesn’t look back, and Pete’s left starting at the closed door, trying to resign himself to the fact that nothing is ever going to go back to normal.   
   
It’s a lowering reflection, and one that sticks with him through a lonely evening in his hotel room and a mostly-sleepless night, right up to breakfast when Patrick brings his breakfast up to the table where Pete’s contemplating his coffee and single slice of toast and sits down with him.   
   
“Morning,” he says, sounding hopeful, and when Pete looks up he’s smiling.   
   
“Morning,” Pete echoes back, completely unsure about what script he’s meant to be following here. “You… uh… slept well?”  
   
Patrick shrugs and pokes at his plate. Instead of the usual plate of bacon and mushrooms, he has a particularly joyless looking low-fat raspberry yoghurt.   
   
“No cooked breakfast today?” he asks.  
   
Patrick scowls. “Not today,” he says shortly, and Pete realizes that Patrick’s on some sort of stupid diet.  
   
He watches him for a few seconds, but Patrick’s gloom about his yoghurt is so extreme it’s almost painful to watch.   
   
“Right,” Pete says and pushes his chair back. “Back in a sec.”   
   
Patrick’s obviously seen and discounted the entire range of Travelodge breakfast, and honestly Pete can’t blame him. It’s hardly enticing at the best of times, and now they’re on their fifth weekend in a row it’s hard to muster enthusiasm for it.   
   
There is a Co-op next door, though, and as well as the Pot Noodle it furnished for Pete’s dinner last night, it has some strawberries and what passes as a croissant at least.   
   
“The lamination on that is pathetic,” Patrick says when Pete puts it down in front of him, but he eats it regardless, spurred on by Pete’s spot-on impression of what Mary Berry would say about it.   
   
It’s fun – not like the last few weeks hadn’t happened, but like they needn’t define the future.   
   
On the table next to them, Frank and Gerard seem to be finding out something similar. Or they’re managing to talk like functioning adults at least. Pete’s suffused with enough good feeling that he’s ready to give them the benefit of the doubt.   
   
It lasts through the rest of breakfast, through the journey back to the tent, even through the showstopper.   
   
It’s doughnuts this week and unsurprisingly Patrick is making a classic jam-filled doughnut.  
   
“I’m making my own jams!” he tells Pete, nettled when Pete dares mention it, and Pete nods affably.   
   
“All four of them,” Pete agrees.   
   
“At least I’m not making _inverse doughnuts_.” It sounds like it should be snappy, but Patrick’s smiling like he’s inexplicably fond.   
   
“Churros are a thing,” Pete says, aware of how fond his own smile is. “And I have jam to dip them in.”  
   
“Jam, lemon curd, and chocolate.” Patrick nods. “And you still have time to criticise me.”  
   
“Because I’m not making four.”  
   
“Because you’re a lightweight,” Patrick says, but he’s smiling as he says it and the words lack sting.   
   
It makes Pete happy, and when he’s happy baking feels like a joy rather than a chore. He’s pleased with how his churros turn out – and the judges choosing him as star baker is just icing on the proverbial cake, even when Lynz undercooks her doughnuts and ends up leaving the show.   
   
His real prize, though, is when Patrick follows him to the train, sitting next to him like he’s never sat anywhere else and keeping up a flow of conversation the entire way.   
   
It’s all that Pete wanted, and even though he knows he’s just setting himself up for failure, he can’t help relaxing into it.   
   
 _Let next week look after itself_ , he decides, and lets himself press closer into Patrick’s warmth. _Some things are worth the risk_.


	6. Week Six – Bake, Bake

Gerard feels like he’s spent most of the last two weeks apologising to his mom for Mikey being knocked out.   
   
It’s always like this – it doesn’t matter if it was his fault, it doesn’t matter how well _he’s_ done, the only person who matters to his mom is Mikey, and Mikey just sits there, basking in the undeserved attention while Gerard is ignored yet again.  
   
Honestly, it’s starting to fuck Gerard off.   
   
 _At least_ , he thinks, _I can get away from it on the show_ , and for the first 40 minutes it seems like it’s worked. He ignores a call from his mom as he leaves, cuz he can claim the Tube cut him off if she asks him about it, he doesn’t bother texting Mikey when he gets to the station, and he resolutely doesn’t feel bad about doing well at something he’s worked hard at.  
   
All in all he’s doing a good job… until Frank plonks himself next to him just as the train pulls away from the platform.   
   
“Hey,” Frank says as he rummages in his bag and emerges with a book. “How’s Mikey doing?”  
   
“Ugh.” Gerard rolls his eyes, all his good work of the last few hours evaporating away. “Why is everyone only ever interested in _Mikey_?”  
   
It’s maybe a bit too harsh, and Frank recoils as if he’s been slapped. Gerard briefly wishes he could bite his own tongue out.   
   
“Don’t,” he says as Frank starts to get up to head to another seat, something far away from Gerard. “I didn’t mean it.”  
   
“No?” Frank sounds skeptical but at least he sits down again. “It sure sounded like you did.”   
   
“Well.” Gerard chews his lower lip. “I did, I guess but… Not you?”  
   
Frank looks at him like he’s examining a bug under a microscope, but then he shrugs and reaches into his bag again to pull out an almond croissant. “So,” he says, breaking off half and passing what’s left to Gerard. “Tell me.”  
   
Gerard would have sworn he was incapable of explaining how he was feeling to anyone, but the pastry is buttery and good, and Frank looks like he isn’t judging, and Gerard finds that, in fact, he can.   
\--  
   
  
   
Somehow, much as Pete doesn’t deserve it, he seems to have spent most of the past week around Patrick’s flat. Watched by the giant ginger cat that seems to have adopted Patrick, they’ve practiced making breakfast pastries until Pete’s fairly sure he can bake a croissant in his sleep.   
   
“Don’t worry,” Patrick tells him as they walk into the tent. “You’re good at this. You’ll be fine.”  
   
Pete nods. Patrick is completely earnest about this, even though the last week has shown Pete that Patrick has a perfection of technique that he will never come close to.   
   
Still, it’s been inspiring working with him. Pete doesn’t think he’s learnt as much ever, and even though it’s not something he expected, he’s more appreciative of it than he can say.   
   
It’s comforting even now, standing across the aisle from Patrick as he puts together his peanut butter and jelly pastries and his parmesan and spinach plaits. Patrick’s stuck with traditional croissants and cinnamon swirls – but Pete will admit (if only to himself) that they are so elegant in their technique that they’re better than anything he could ever bake himself.   
   
Not that it’s doing either of them any good – Ray is blowing them out of the water without breaking a sweat.   
   
“Sorry,” he says with a grin when Pete bitches at him about it. “Pastry just does what I say.”  
   
“Bet he gets star baker this week,” Pete whispers to Patrick as they watch Ray fold the butter into his puff pastry and Patrick huffs out a laugh.   
   
“No bet,” he says and pokes Pete in the side.   
   
\--  
   
It’s weird. Gerard wasn’t expecting to enjoy the show – especially after Mikey left. He was mostly expecting to mark time until he got thrown off himself but now… Frank is grinning across the aisle at him as they try and decipher the instructions for the technical challenge (a Bakewell tart – and yes. They totally giggled like school kids when _that_ was announced) and Gerard doesn’t regret anything.   
   
Not that he doesn’t have motivation for regret.   
   
“You gonna give me your cherry?” Frank leers, and Gerard feels his cheeks burn.  
   
“It’s raspberry jam,” he snaps. “And this isn’t Mr Kiplings. We’re topping it with almonds.”  
   
“Who said I was talking about the tarts?” Frank asks and pokes his tongue out.   
   
“You’re a menace,” Gerard says and ducks as Frank throws a packet of almonds at him.   
   
“Spoilsport,” Frank says with a grin, before turning to mock Ray’s clearly perfect pastry.   
   
“Did we hear right?” Sue asks over Gerard’s shoulder and he spins around with guilty speed.  
   
“Was our Frank calling you a tart who bakes well?” Mel asks, fighting to keep a straight face.   
   
“No!” Gerard is horribly aware that his cheeks are too red to convincingly pretest innocence, but he’s compelled to try regardless. “He was…”  
   
“Honestly.” Frank steps up behind Gerard, close enough that Gerard can feel the heat of his body through both their clothes, close enough that he can hook his chin over Gerard’s shoulder. “Ladies. Look at us.” When he grins, his cheek presses warmly against Gerard’s neck. “Which one of us do you really think is the tart who bakes well?”   
   
Sue laughs raucously. “In this tent? Who would I even choose first?”   
   
  
   
They move on but Frank hesitates for a few long seconds. He rests his hand on Gerard’s waist and squeezes.   
   
“We’re not going to beat Ray,” he says, his breath tickling Gerard’s ear. “So relax. Enjoy this.”  
   
He squeezes Gerard’s waist again before he moves away, and Gerard feels the tension drain from his body in a rush.   
   
It shouldn’t make a difference – it really shouldn’t – but somehow it is easier to bake when the pressure of winning is gone.   
   
So instead of winding himself up into a frenzy, he actually enjoys baking for perhaps the first time since his Grandma was alive.  
   
“Well done,” Frank tells him as they leave the tent for the night. “You did well.”  
   
“I didn’t win,” Gerard says, archly, and Frank laughs.   
   
“You came second. To Ray.” He claps Gerard on the shoulder. “That deserves a beer in anyone’s book.”  
   
“Year?” Gerard shoves Frank with his shoulder. “You buying?”  
   
Frank shrugs, and if Gerard didn’t know better he’d swear his cheeks were pink. “May as well,” he says. “You know.”  
   
He starts to stride off ahead, and Gerard watches, baffled, for a second, before he starts trotting to catch Frank up.   
   
—  
   
It would be fair to say that Pete’s been looking forward to this showstopper for most of the week.   
   
It’s eclairs, and Pete loves baking eclairs… but more than that, he’s managed to talk Patrick into trying something a bit different for a change.   
   
So, this week he cares much less about his bakes (a flower of eclairs, if you’re interested, filled with lemon curd, passion fruit curd, and raspberry curd) and actually cares more about Patrick’s.   
   
Patrick’s going for a trio of eclairs that look identical, but which are filled with different praline-cream fillings, and topped with different ganache toppings. It’s understated, but fiendishly difficult, and Pete is thrilled that Patrick had listened to him when he suggested it.   
   
Even so, neither of them can hold a candle to Ray and his mismatched eclairs, where the outside and insides don’t match and which Mary and Paul enthuse over at judging.   
   
It’s not surprise when Ray gets star baker, and Pete’s mostly pleased that Patrick comes second, before Gerard, before him, before Frank.   
   
“See?” he tells Patrick, once they’ve finished commiserating with Amanda (the rigour of pastry was _not_ her friend). “I told you you could do it.”  
   
“Sure,” Patrick tells him, but he looks pleased.   
   
—   
   
It’s not usual, but instead of heading for the train the lot of them head to the pub after.  
   
It should be awkward – Gerard’s fully aware of that. He usually _hates_ social gatherings. But somehow this time, with Frank next to him and everyone slightly hysterically happy they’ve survived the week, it’s easier to bear.   
   
Despite that, he’s grabbed a table in the corner, and Pete and Patrick are sitting between him and the rest of the room. Not that they’re interrupting his conversation with Frank – they’re much too busy laughing at some inside joke until their cheeks are pinks and there are tears leaking from the corners of their eyes.   
   
“It’s been a good week,” Frank says in a low voice, as if anyone is interested in listening to them when they could be watching Mel and Sue enact the most romantic scenes from Shakespeare. “You did well.”  
   
“Yeah.” Gerard takes a sip of his drink. “Couldn’t have done it without you though.”  
   
“You could,” Frank tells him, but it’s Frank’s small pleased smile that Gerard remembers for the rest of the week.


	7. Week Seven – Half-Doomed and Semi-Sweet Morsels

  
   
[From The Guardian’s Web Archive: https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/live/]

Great British Bake Off, Episode Seven – As It Happened  
I. Crow  
@theimmoralcrow

Who knew it? Journalists who get married eventually want honeymoons. Slackers. Still! It means that you have me for another week and this week… is pies. 

So grab yourself some mash, try to find some gravy (or liquor if you’re a Londoner) and watch along with me. 

This week’s signature bake is a Wellington. My money is on a Frank-vegan-wellington special and a traditional-yet-perfect Patrick beef wellington. Would anyone like to place a small wager?

For all of you that did bet against me, you just lost money. Bad luck! 

The trick with wellingtons is to get a crisp pastry shell and a perfectly cooked interior – not an easy balance when you can’t see inside until you slice it.

Not that that seems to be worrying this lot. We’re down to our last six – and they’re pairing up nicely.

Well, I *say* that. Pete and Patrick are looking cosy; Frank and Gerard seem to be tolerating each other…

Ray is looking very nervous of Joan. 

He has some justification – Joan looks like a minx and I *know* what minxes look like. 

ANYWAY! Wellingtons! 

(Is anyone else flagging with the baking this week? I mean… I’m sure it’ll look great, but doesn’t it feel like a backdrop to the real drama?)

(Will Pete and Patrick get over themselves and admit their true love? Will they get Gerard and Frank to make them a wedding cake?)

(Will Joan get away with pinching Ray’s bum even once more without it being sexual harassment?)

(All this and Things Baked In Pastry)

Um… So. They’re judging the signature bakes and I may never be allowed to live tweet again.

Overall Paul and Mary prefer Ray’s spiced wellington: “The pastry more than makes up for the slightly unusual flavour”, but it’s very close.

We have a good range of bakers here. And we all know how much I love baking. 

And onto the technical challenge, which today is a raised pork pie!

You have to feel slightly sorry for Frank with these technicals, don’t you?

He does such a good job turning things vegan the rest of the time, then he has to get elbow deep in minced pork for this. Poor kid. 

Actually you have to feel sorry for all the Americans. Thank goodness they have Joan!

Apparently pork pies are not a cross-cultural food and there is some horror that they are not eaten hot.

*shakes head sadly*

So, in case there are any international readers here: a pork pie is made by mincing pork shoulder and pork belly, encasing the meat in pork jelly, and encasing the whole lot in hot-water pastry.

If you’re making a Melton Mowbray pork pie, you chop the meat rather than mincing it. 

You eat them cold, with English mustard, and the best bit is the delicious crust on the bottom of the pie. 

Gosh. I could really eat a pork pie about now. 

Um… which is lucky, because due to the magic of television, we are nearly done! 

It’s been something of a team effort this time – Ray’s been giving advice to everyone on how to achieve the perfect hot-water crust…

Joan’s been telling everyone what makes a good pork pie and has checked the pork mixture for… well. The whole tent, I think. 

Patrick’s checked the finish on all the pies before they go in to bake. 

Gerard’s done the worst meaty bits for Frank.

And Pete is entertaining the tent with what I think are odes to Patrick’s loveliness.

Bless him, the boy has a voice like a distressed goose. 

Unsurprisingly the pies look almost identical. Let’s see what Mary and Paul make of the differences between them! 

Good comments all around, but Ray wins by a whisker. The boy is a pastry genius after all! 

And now for the showstopper! A stacked trio of pies. I wonder what our competitors will come up with? 

Frank, unsurprisingly, is going for a trio of vegan pies. 

On an unrelated note, I never knew how attractive veganism was until Frank was demonstrating it *stares into space*

Gerard is going for media pies, including a damn fine Twin Peaks cherry pie. 

Pete is going for pies with a Thanksgiving theme – turkey pie, sweet potato pie, pumpkin pie. 

Joan is baking a trio of American pies. I think this is to catch Ray’s eye. I do like Joan <3 

Patrick is baking three takes on apple pie – technical and interesting and exactly what I expected from him. 

And Ray… Oh my. He’s going to bake a trio of what he calls “traditional British pies”. 

There is no way this can go wrong, is there?

He’s starting with a mince pie (because if Pete’s doing Thanksgiving, then Ray is clearly going to do Christmas!), lemon merengue pie (“it’s on every menu over here!” – you can’t argue with his logic!) and…

A stargazey pie.

I’m pausing here while international viewers consult google. Let me know when you’re ready. 

Ah, the horrified tweets assure me you now know what this is. 

Yes. A stargazey pie is a fish pie made with the whole fish. Their little heads peek from the top pie crust, as if they are gazing at the stars on a moonlit night. 

A brave choice. Brave and, judging by Frank’s face, horrific. 

On another unrelated note, every time I live tweet for Bake Off, I seem to end up in protracted wrangles with Americans about the nature of British food. 

You know, can you live without a kettle, what’s an eggcup, just what are jelly snakes… that sort of thing.

To avoid any confusion here, a stargazey pie is a *traditional* British pie. This means no one has ever eaten it. This is not like the pork pie, which you can pick up in every petrol station forecourt in the country…

If a British friend invites you for supper, they will not serve you stargazey pie (unless you’re an American who has been a dick to them about British food. Then all bets are off). 

This is something that only the Cornish ate in the first place, and since everyone in Cornwall has been uprooted and dispossessed…

(by folk from London and the Home Counties who need somewhere picturesque for the holiday home they never bother visiting)

…I am not sure it can even be considered to be a traditional Cornish food any more. 

Enough! It is a mad dish and Ray is a madman for making it, and I would forgive that man and his thighs *anything*

Even fish pie. 

Also I have apparently talked through the whole baking segment again. But… you guys are watching this, right?

I mean, I am adding to your interest here. You’re not relying on me to know that Patrick cuts apple segments with mathematical precision?

That Frank’s pies are going to taste delicious? That Gerard managed to talk to camera for *five whole minutes* about pie in science fiction? 

(That Pete and Patrick are standing waaaaaay closer together than they should be able to given that they are on two separate benches)

You can see all this. You don’t need me telling you. (And if someone could tweet my boss telling her that, that would be amazing, thanks so much)

ANYWAY. We are in the last five minutes. Pies are being stacked! Pastry is being gilded! Brows are being mopped! 

And those pies look *amazing*

I mean. All of them. Even Frank’s. 

The judges agree! 

Apparently his white bean and thyme pie is “delicately flavoured”, his four mushroom pie is “complex and nuanced” and his spinach and tofu quiche thing has “excellent pastry”

Good show, Frank!

Joan also does well, transporting Paul to an American diner, and the homemade vanilla ice-cream is a nice touch. 

Pete’s made some “bold touches” but they like his pies, even if the turkey is a little dry…

Oh good. They like Gerard’s pies too. I was worried someone would have to explain the cultural references to Mary but she seems happy to concentrate on how the pies taste…

Oh, I knew this was going too well.

Oh dear.

Poor Ray :(((((((((((

He’s gone for dramatic presentation and put the stargazey pie on top, over the lemon merengue, and the mince pie at the bottom.

It’s a great idea! I mean… it looks really striking (if you like dead-eyed fish peering at you from a pastry crust)

I’m sure he even tried this at home.

You know what the difference between home and the tent is? Yep. The lights they use for filming. The *hot* lights they use for filming. 

I don’t know how to tell you this (I mean, presuming you’re just reading my words and not watching this car crash for yourself) but the pies are melting under the heat of the lights…

And the juicy, pilchard-y goodness from the top pie has seeped downwards…. Onto the lemon merengue…

Which has taken the opportunity to melt a sticky, sugary, fishy goo all over the mince pie. 

Oh, Ray. Oh my sweet, muscle-thighed beauty. Oh, what have you done???

Let us gloss over the judges’ comments – they look as sad to be saying them as we are to be hearing them. 

*stares into space*

Maybe Patrick’s pies will be disastrous and Ray will get to stay? But… the cure is as bad as the disease in that case. 

Anyway, Patrick’s pies are perfect. We all knew they would be. 

The cinnamon-laced mom’s American apple pie, the shortcrust apple pie with the cheddar cheese glaze, the gloriously perfect tarte-tatin. 

Oh, Patrick. You’re gonna make Pete’s mom so happy when he brings you home to meet her. 

And the moment of truth. I have tissues at the ready and have switched from tea to pinot noir. I am still not ready for this. 

Joan has got baker of the week. Well done Joan. She does not look happy. She knows what is coming as well as we do.

The camera lingers over a shot of Ray; the production team know what we want. 

That hair, those hands, that face… those thighs. 

Oh, Ray. 

And yes. This week Ray will leave the tent, taking our hearts and libidos with him. 

Adieu, sweet prince. We toast you with our wine and our tears. The memory of you kneading dough will live, evergreen, in our hearts. 

And that’s me, out. I can’t think of a pithy rejoinder to leave on. Make one up for yourself and share it with Rhik next week – I need to concentrate on nursing my broken heart. 

I mean, hopefully Rhik will be back next week, but in this crazy mixed up world of young love and seeping pies, who even knows?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know. I didn't put timings on these tweets. CAN WE ALL PRETEND I DID? 
> 
> Also, yes. That art is actually based on how I looked as I typed this chapter - who needed a fourth wall anyway?


	8. Week Eight – What a bake, Donnie

Patrick’s been dreading the alternative ingredients week. 

He knows his strengths – but he also knows his limitations. Trying to substitute new ingredients for ones he knows and understands is pushing him further than is comfortable. He might still be in with a chance – but he’d be happier if this challenge had happened in an earlier week when the competition wasn’t so fierce. Not even a week of practicing with Pete has helped. Well… it’s helped a little bit. Maybe.

At the very least, this week, with its impromptu sleepovers and Cooking Mama: Bake Off battles was actually _fun_. It’s certainly a far cry from the rest of his time in UK which has predominantly featured long days spent obsessively practicing signature bakes and showstoppers in the complete silence of his shitty little apartment. 

“You can do it,” Pete mutters as they take their places behind their benches, and Patrick spares him a small, tight smile, because Pete _really_ believes that and not all of Patrick’s (sensible, well-reasoned) arguments can seem to make an impact on that belief. 

It becomes obvious that, Pete’s enthusiasm aside, Patrick really can’t do it.

He overcompensates with the sugar free cake, managing to bake something so sweet that he can’t finish a mouthful, and can’t even convincingly pretend it’s okay. And the gluten free muffins of the technical challenge… well. They could be used as projectile missiles, but that’s about all that can be said for them. 

“It’s not fair,” he moans into Pete’s armpit when they’re safely back at the hotel. “Frank’s helping Gerard and no one even cares.”

Pete makes a vaguely sympathetic noise and buries his face in Patrick’s hair.

“I’d help you,” he says, the words a bit muffled, “you know. If I could.”

“I know,” Patrick says. “Just…”

He trails off. It’s not fair and there’s nothing either of them can do about it. No matter what he does tomorrow, it’s probably him who’s leaving. 

“Stay here?” Pete asks, and for the first time since Patrick’s known him, he sounds a bit unsure. 

It’s what makes Patrick decide. 

“Sure,” he whispers, even if all the sleepovers at Pete’s flat last week took place in safely different rooms. 

It’s maybe a bit too warm with Pete wrapped around him like the world’s most affectionate octopus, but it’s honestly too comfortable for Patrick to complain and he lets himself relax, safe for the moment, in Pete’s arms. 

He isn’t sure he’ll be able to sleep at all – it’s not like he’s used to sleeping with anyone at all, much less _Pete_ , with all the confusing feelings and complicated responses he seems to effortlessly evoke. 

But in the end he must sleep, because he wakes up hours later, the sun in his eyes, and drool pooling unattractively under his mouth where it’s pillowed on Pete’s chest. 

He takes a second to work out what’s going on. He’s fairly sure Pete’s awake; he’s lying very still except for where his fingers are drawing a nonsense pattern against the skin of Patrick’s shoulder. 

“What time’s it?” Patrick mutters, still half asleep but trying valiantly to resist the temptation to press closer to Pete. 

“Too early,” Pete says, his voice rough but wholly awake. “Go back to sleep.”

There are arguments Patrick should find against this, but for the life of him he can’t think of a single one of them right now. He settles down with a sleepy murmur and falls back asleep with the gentle, rhythmic pass of Pete’s fingers soothing his way. 

The showstopper is a living nightmare. 

Nothing goes right. They’re making a dairy free ice-cream roll, and under the heat of the studio lights and the unseasonably hot British sun Patrick just can’t get his ice-cream to set to anything firmer than a sloppy soup.

“What am I going to do?” he whimpers to Pete when they’re hidden by the freezer. “This is the second fucking batch.”

“Use mine,” Pete says, and Patrick shakes his head, even as something in his chest twists at the sincerity of the words. 

“I can’t,” he says. “It’s cheating.”

Pete looks at him for a long second then grabs his hand and drags him off, slamming the freezer behind him.

“C’mon,” he says, unnecessarily because Patrick’s already following him. 

“Pete,” he tries, because it’s important that he at least gives the impression of independence. “Where…”

“Here,” Pete says, shoving him into the store cupboard. “Away from those fucking cameras.” 

He pulls Patrick into a rough embrace, holding just long enough that Patrick starts to finally relax, before pulling back and holding him by his biceps. 

“Listen,” he says, his voice more serious than Patrick’s heard it before. “I know this is throwing you, I know things are tough, but you…” He looks at Patrick, shaking his head, even as his lips curve into a reluctant smile. “I’ve never met a baker like you before.” 

“It doesn’t change anything,” Patrick mutters mutinously, and Pete’s grip tightens infinitesimally. 

“No,” he agrees. “It doesn’t. But if anyone can turn this around, you can, and even if you can’t?” He grins, wide and mischievous. “Who gives a fuck what these people think? I…”

He breaks off and Patrick swallows around his suddenly dry mouth. 

“You what?” he prompts, and Pete closes the tiny distance between them. 

“I think you’re fairly fucking perfect,” he says, and his eyes flick down to Patrick’s lips, making Patrick’s breath catch. 

“Oh, lovely.” Sue Perkins’ voice washes over them like a bucket of cold water, and Patrick leaps backwards with a highpitched-yet-manly yelp. “No! Boys! Don’t let _me_ stop you.” 

“Nothing to stop,” Patrick says, his face flaming hot with embarrassment. He shoots an apologetic look at Pete and dashes from the room, doing his best to ignore Sue’s helpless laughter. 

Regardless, Pete’s words stick with him, and in the end he manages to pull together something that isn’t completely shameful. 

Not that it does him any good – the judges reactions are far too gentle, as if they already know there’s no point in adding to his misery. So he spends the entirety of the judging struggling to breathe through the tightness in his chest while next to him Pete is perceptibly vibrating out of his skin with his desire to offer comfort to Patrick or to fight anyone who says anything negative. Or both. Probably both. Pete seems to be capable of experiencing more feelings all in one go than Patrick even knew existed at all. 

Still, he notices when the judges make Gerard star baker, praising his grasp of the alternative ingredients. _It’s all Frank_ , Patrick wants to scream, but Gerard just inclines his head and thanks them. 

“Preparation,” Gerard tells Mary earnestly. “It’s the key to my success.”

The outrageousness of the lie – even if it’s a lie of omission – shocks Patrick from his misery and next to him Frank freezes in place like a statue. 

“Really?” he hears Frank say, low and dangerous. “ _Really_?” But there’s no time for Gerard to reply, because Sue’s stepping forward with a sympathetic curl to her lips. 

“It’s my job to announce who’s leaving us this week,” she says, and although the cameras are panning across all the bakers, Patrick already knows what she is going to say. “His sponges were as light as air, his pavlovas were the talk of the town… but, Patrick.” She steps forward. “Alternative ingredients were not your friends and now it’s time to say goodbye.” 

Patrick just has time to nod his understanding before he’s struggling to breathe under a pile of bakers, and the closest baker, the one who’s holding tightest, is Pete. 

He slips away while the others are being briefed for next week’s show. Pete doesn’t need him, he decides as he sets Pete’s notification tones on his phone to silent in the taxi on the way to the station. He’ll just drag Pete down. 

He waits for the train on his own and tries to hold onto that thought to calm his strangely pounding heart. 

He’s doing this for Pete’s good – he just has to stay strong. In a week Pete will barely remember he existed.


	9. Week Nine – Folie a Patisserie

Linda’s been a production assistant for seven months. She’s been in the UK for a year. She’s not sure a lifetime could have prepared her for this. 

She was aware of the reputation English food had before she took the job, but it’s one thing knowing something as an abstract concept, and quite another to see a dozen fish staring with their sightless eyes from a Stargazey Pie. 

Frankly, if it hadn’t been for the millionaire's shortbread in week two, she might have changed her name and fled the country. 

Instead she was so weighted down with delicious buttery goodness that she was barely able to move for three weeks and somehow, in that time, the idiot contestants seem to have grown on her. 

Now she’s not sure she would leave even if she could. 

How could she when Frank and Gerard are glaring daggers at each other every time they’re in the same room? When Pete is wandering around like the last puppy in the show, alone and confused? When the only happy person is Joan? Even that is probably because she went out drinking with La Berry last night. The two of them had demolished a truly disgusting amount of gin before fondling the cocktail waiter, necessitating a Production Company Special Rescue before the police were called.

Plus this is Patisserie week, and Linda is more than hopeful of rich pickings by the end of the weekend. 

They start with petite fours, and Frank and Gerard almost come to blows straight away.

“I’m not copying you,” Gerard hisses, even though his French Fancies do look very like Frank’s mini vegetable medley of carrot and beetroot sponges. 

“Tell yourself that,” Frank sneers. “You’ll believe whatever you want anyway.”

“Frank…” Gerard sounds plaintive, but Frank’s unmoved. 

“Fuck off,” he snaps. “Some of us need to concentrate to get by.” His lip curls. “We don’t all leech off other people to win.” 

The animosity between them is so intense that Linda almost doesn’t notice how lacklustre Pete’s own attempt is. It’s petite fours – the perfect opportunity for him to showcase the whimsical bakes he seems to prefer. 

But instead of confections she can only dream off, he’s poking melted chocolate around a bowl as if he’s lost all joy in life.

“Mate,” she says when she brings him a bottle of water. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, but his eyes are utterly flat and joyless, and he doesn't bother bantering with her like he usually does. 

She takes a step back and looks at him steadily, but he doesn’t look up.

“How’s Patrick?” she asks at last. 

Pete shrugs. “Dunno.” He glares at his half-completed cakes like they just insulted his mother. “I haven’t heard from him.”

“Oh.” That explains a lot actually. “Why not?”

“Probably come to his senses.” Pete starts smearing ganache over sponge. It’s lumpy and joyless and his movements are staccato and uncertain. “He’s finished here. Why would he bother keeping in touch with _me_?”

Linda stares at him, unable to find a word to say for the life of her. 

She’s been here for the past nine weeks – she’s seen how Patrick looks at Pete… And how Pete looks at Patrick. 

“Sure,” she says at last and wanders away, waiting until she gets out of the tent before she pulls out her phone. She only has the bakers’ phone numbers in case of emergency, but honestly, right now Pete _is_ an emergency. 

—

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Patrick says when she meets him off the train on Sunday morning. 

“But you are,” Linda says, and Patrick shrugs. 

“You said it was an emergency.”

“Kind of.” She picks up his bag for him, hoping to postpone the moment of truth. 

“Kind of an emergency?” He sounds puzzled, but not properly angry yet. Linda thinks this is a good sign. 

“Pete’s sad,” she says, starting to walk towards the exit, hoping that momentum will keep Patrick moving. 

“Is that all?” The anger is creeping into Patrick’s voice now, and Linda shrugs, slightly shamefaced. 

“His baklava was a cake,” she tells Patrick. “He didn’t even bother telling us the story or the reason for the number of layers of pastry.”

Patrick’s eyes widen and he hisses. “Seriously?”

Linda nods. “His petite fours were pedestrian at best and when Mary asked he told her they were only cakes.”

They stop dead in their tracks, and then Patrick nods, determined. 

“I’ll come with you,” he says, and Linda grins with relief. 

He won’t actually come and _see_ Pete when he gets there, though, choosing instead to hover around the periphery. 

Linda does her best to persuade him, but frankly the man is as obstinate as a mule. 

And it isn’t like she has a lot of time to spend persuading him. Gerard and Frank have somehow degenerated into a screaming match in her absence, and Sonia, the only production assistant who ranks lower than Linda, is nearly in tears. 

“You’ve got to help!” she says, nearly collapsing onto Linda. “They started screaming as soon as they got into the tent and I can’t get them to stop.”

“Okay,” Linda tells her. “Sure.” She puts as much confidence as she can into her voice, but Gerard’s gone red and Frank’s gone white and she really isn’t sure quite what she _can_ do. 

“Why are you doing this?” Gerard asks, his voice just a shade too loud and angry to escape notice. 

“What do you mean?” Frank snaps, clearly fighting to keep control of himself. 

“Being a dick!” 

“What?” Frank raises his eyebrow in a parody of disinterested hauteur, but his lips are white with tension. “You mean like taking the fucking credit for someone else’s hard work?”

“What do you mean?” Gerard asks, looking baffled. 

“I mean you, you shitlord,” Frank snaps.  

“But why?” Gerard asks, sounding genuinely baffled. “What did I do?” 

“You let me break my back helping you and then you told the judges you’d done it yourself.” Frank glares at him. He doesn’t use insults – his expression makes them unnecessary. 

“I didn’t want to get you in trouble!” 

“Seriously?” Frank’s lip curls. “Seriously? _That’s_ your excuse?”

He looks like he’s about to hit Gerard, and Linda nods at Ralph-the-cameraman and dashes in with a fabricated need for an interview. It won’t defuse the situation, but with any luck it will buy her enough time to come up with a proper solution. 

By the time she’s managed to calm things down, Patrick’s hidden himself somewhere and Pete is frowning down at his bench in concentration. 

“You okay?” she asks him. Pete looks up at her like he hasn’t seen her before. 

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I mean…” He frowns and looks around the tent. “I thought I saw…” He trails off and shrugs. “Eh. It was probably nothing.”

“Okay.” Linda looks at him, trying to work out whether she’s just made things worse by bringing Patrick back. “Whatever you say, dude.”

Pete’s mouth twists. “Words haven’t really been my thing lately.”

“Your cakes have been amazing though.”

He nods, thoughtfully. “Maybe,” he says. “But that doesn’t matter if no one understands them, does it?”

Linda shrugs. “The right person’s gonna understand the right cake. You just got to get them to see it.”

“What?” Pete says. “I mean… say that again?”

“Which bit? That the right person just has to see the right cake?”

“Yes.” Pete steps forward and squeezes her. “You’re a genius, Linda.”

“If you say so.” She hugs him for a second before pulling free. “Just… do your best, okay?”

“Course I will,” he says, and then Frank and Gerard are screaming at each other again and she doesn’t have any time to worry about Pete for the next few hours. 

She makes sure she’s there for judging, though, and she manages to find Patrick in the store cupboard and drags him with her.

“They’ll see me!” he whines, but Linda just tightens her grip on his wrist. 

“You’ve got headphones and a clipboard,” she tells him. “Trust me. You’re invisible for now.” 

He grumbles mutinously, but at least he obeys her, and stands, quiet and unobserved, behind the line of cameras as Mary and Paul dissect cake after cake. 

It’s only when Pete brings his cake up that Patrick tenses up next to her.

“Tell us about this cake,” Paul says.

Pete clears his throat, and if Linda didn’t know better, she’d be sure his eyes darted in her direction. 

“This is a hidden heart cake,” he says. “All surface glitz over a sour interior.”

“Interesting,” Mary says and cuts through the marbled gold surface, exposing the dark blackcurrant mousse underneath. “And what is this?”

She gestures with her fork to the red heart shape at the centre of the cake, and Pete actually blushes. 

“It’s a seedless raspberry heart,” he tells her. “To show that sometimes under all the glitz and bitterness, there can be sweetness.” He glances towards Linda again, but she’s completely sure now that she’s not the one he’s looking for. “It shows that sometimes, love can be found in the weirdest places. Even in a cake.”

“Fascinating,” Mary says. “And the texture of the mousse is perfect.”

“Good bake on the sponge as well,” Paul says, “but the gold glaze is off-putting.” 

Pete nods, and brings the remains of his cake back to his bench while Gerard brings his mousse Rubik’s cube cake up to be judged. 

“It reminds me of my childhood,” Gerard tells Mary earnestly. “I could never get the hang of it, but Mikey was great at it. He’d help me all the time, and I guess I never really thanked him.” He turns to look at Frank. “Sometimes I can be a jerk when people help me.”

There’s a weird tension in the air, but in the end Frank nods, and Gerard relaxes and finally smiles, even though Mary and Paul are still giving their judgement on his cake.  

It doesn’t come as a surprise when Gerard is selected as star baker… and nor does it come as a surprise when Pete has to leave the show. 

Patrick starts when it’s announced, like he’d run to Pete if he could, but Linda stops him with a hand on his arm, and they watch together as the other bakers pile onto Pete to offer him their sympathy. 

After the hugs are done, Pete picks up his cake and walks to the back of the tent, his shoulders tight, but the expression on his face full of resolution. 

“I made you a cake,” he tells Patrick.

"You knew I was here?” Patrick sounds shocked, and Pete’s mouth quirks up at the corners. 

“Of course I did.” He shrugs. “It’s _you_ , isn’t it?”

“Oh.” Patrick looks at the cake in Pete’s hands. “And you made that for me?”

“If you want it.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Patrick says and reaches out to cup Pete’s face in his hands. “I have no idea what I’m going to do with you.”

Fortunately Linda manages to catch the cake before it falls, forgotten, and she makes off across the tent with it. 

The point about cakes, she thinks as she helps herself to a forkful, is that while they may not be as thrilling as kisses, they are way more reliable. 

Still, she clears the tent once she finishes the cake. 

“Probably best to give them some privacy,” Joan says with a smirk as Linda leads her to her taxi. “Now, should we go for a small drink before I catch the train?”

All in all, Linda decides, she makes the best life choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if you recognise the production assistant...


	10. Week Ten – Number One with a Bake Off

Sue has a fucking beast of a headache.  
   
She should know better; after eight seasons of this show she should never think it’s a good idea to go drinking with Mary Berry.   
   
Much as the woman seems to survive on a single cup of tea a day, she has Opinions about clear spirits, and last night was another abysmal example of why Sue needs to learn to say no. (For those keeping count, the other examples are primarily characterised by the words _Giles Coren_ ).   
   
But she hadn’t said no, and neither had Mel, and now the both of them are navigating the horrors of the final weekend with hangovers that threaten to overspill the tent. How Joan survived and is managing to stand there, looking like a benevolent grandmother rather than a member of the walking dead, Sue has no idea. She must be seventy if she’s a day – surely at some point your liver should catch up with you.   
   
“At least there’s nothing that smells too strong,” Mel mutters under her breath as they stagger into the tent, and Sue does her best to stifle a laugh.   
   
“I wouldn’t bet on it.”  
   
She stares at the remaining bakers. Fuck even knows what happened between Frank and Gerard, but all the tension from last week feels like it’s resolved, leaving them grinning at each other – shy and more than a bit awkward, but it’s something. They survived hangover-free as well, though since they never made it to the bar, it’s unsurprising.   
   
Quite what they were doing instead, Sue doesn’t speculate.   
   
Behind them Joan is watching indulgently, and when she catches Sue’s eye she nods at her bench where there’s a packet of paracetamol resting next to a couple of mugs of tea.   
   
Sue steers Mel over to her, gratitude radiating from every pore.   
   
“You’re a saint,” she says fervently as the pills hit her stomach.   
   
“Nonsense,” Joan says. “And you girls need to learn to hold your drink before going out with the likes of us in future.”   
   
Mel murmurs her thanks, but Sue is too busy dry-swallowing the pills and reaching for her tea to say a word. She kinda misses Pete and his ridiculous metaphor cakes – not to mention Patrick’s perfect bacon sandwiches. How he worked out how to make them for her and Mel at the same time when one is toasted and one is on sliced white; one is brown sauce and one is right-thinking ketchup she will never know – but she could do with him right now, for sure.   
   
Instead she has to finish her tea and pull herself together, wracking her brain for the soufflé related puns she and Mel had come up with earlier.   
   
Fortunately most of the job is hurrying up and waiting, and when she’s done with the official schtick she grabs a seat out of the line of sight of the cameras and curls up with her tea and her head on Mel’s shoulder.   
   
Mel’s used to it. She submits with a small pleased noise and pulls a napkin wrapped croissant out of her pocket.  
   
“Stole it from breakfast,” she says and tears off half before she passes the rest to Sue.   
   
They eat in silence, watching the contestants faffing about with pans like the serious bakers they are.  
   
“Those two are getting on better,” Sue says, and Mel looks at Frank and Gerard and nods.   
   
“He’s helping with his eggs,” Mel says. She looks at Sue; Sue looks at her. They start laughing so loudly that they’re shushed loudly by everyone working the floor.   
   
Whatever Gerard and Frank were up to, it seems to work for them. Frank's soufflé has lift and texture; Gerard’s manages to avoid all the taste disasters it could have been prone to. Also it’s chocolate – with marinated cherries no less. Mel rescues the remains and they eat it together, outside, under a tree, away from Mary’s amused and judgemental expression.   
   
The good mood continues into the afternoon – with the added bonus that Sue’s hangover has passed enough that she isn’t likely to throw up over an unsuspecting baker.   
   
Plus it’s Sachertorte which is Sue’s favourite sort of chocolate cake, and Joan lets her get away with stealing a spoonful of apricot jam as it cools.   
   
Maybe it’s the sticky fruitiness of the jam, maybe it’s the small shared smiles Gerard and Frank trade between them as they bake – hell, maybe it’s even the waning hangover, but unusually for a final, there’s a sense of well-being and calm permeating the tent.  
   
Sue decides not to question it; she closes her eyes and dozes.   
   
—  
   
It’s the last showstopper. Gerard never thought he would get here – if he’d even thought of the final at all it was imagining being in the audience of bakers-who-failed. So he kinda hesitates as he pushes into the tent – not quite sure of what he’s feeling right now.   
   
“It’s something, isn’t it?” Frank murmurs from behind his shoulder, and he starts, unaware of Frank’s presence until then.  
   
“It is,” he says. “Kinda makes me wish I was a better baker.”  
   
Frank snorts, a graceless and disbelieving noise. “You’re a great baker,” he says, low enough that no one else could hear, even if they were bothering to listen. “Everything you make looks perfect.”  
   
“Maybe.” Gerard shrugs and moves aside so that there’s room for Frank next to him. “I’ll never be able to make anything that tastes as good as your cakes, though.”   
   
Frank does his best to subdue his smirk – he’s just not very successful, that’s all.   
   
“Can’t argue with genius,” he says. “S’just a shame we can’t work together. With my looks and your brains…” He pauses and Gerard pokes him in the side, relishing his squawk of outrage. “What?! I’m just saying that we could make something that would be properly show stopping.”   
   
He shrugs at the thought, turning away as if he’s going to go to the bench they’ve allocated him, but Gerard catches him by the shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.  
   
“Wait,” he says, urgently. “Say that again.”  
   
“What?” Frank’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “We could do something properly show stopping?”  
   
“Yeah,” Gerard says, an idea of the lifetime forming in front of his eyes. “That.” He looks around until he sees Joan already at her bench and tugs Frank across to her. “So,” he says as soon as he is in earshot. “I think I have a cunning plan.”   
   
—  
   
“What the fuck are they doing?” Mel hisses.  
   
Sue shrugs, torn between bafflement and delight.   
   
“Not sure,” she says, “but according to Gerard they are ‘stopping the fucking show’ so…”  
   
“Isn’t that illegal?”  
   
“It’s Bake Off,” Sue says. “I don’t think there are laws.”  
   
“Ugh.” Mel kicks her in the shin. “You know what I mean. Against the rules.”  
   
“Dunno.” Sue looks across at where the three bakers are engaged in a spirited debate about the benefits of ganache as a filling compared to raspberry cream on what is now a shared showstopper of a wedding cake and frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t _think_ so.”   
   
Linda-the-production-assistant walks past them with the purposeful step and worried face of a woman who’s been tasked with finding out just what the rules of Bake Off are – and if there are penalties for disobeying them.   
   
She rolls her eyes when Sue looks at her, but comes over anyway.   
   
“Not sure,” she says, answering the unasked question. “I think it comes down to Mary and Paul.”   
   
“And what are they saying?” Mel asks.   
   
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Linda snaps. “Last I saw they were on the phone with the big bosses.” She pauses and scowls. “It’ll be whatever outcome makes the best tv.”   
   
Sue nods, unsurprised. At this point they go down in history regardless of the outcome.   
   
Not that the bakers seem to care. They’re huddled around their shared bake, the details apparently now decided and the technical work just getting underway. Each of them looks… well. Happy. Purposeful. Like the achievement of the cake they’re making together outweighs the thrum of consternation that’s infecting the rest of the tent.   
   
“Why are you doing this?” she asks later when the powers that be have decided it can go ahead.   
   
“You wanted a showstopper,” Gerard says. “We’re giving you one.”  
   
“We’re gonna make something better together than we can apart,” Frank says, his eyes alight with mischief, like he’s seen the director crying in the corner and being pacified with coffee and danish pastries.   
   
“It’s good to get out of your rut, don’t you think?” Joan says, as if there’s nothing anarchic about any of this at all. “And it’s not often I get to work with such dashing young men.”   
   
There’s a twinkle in her eye that Sue resolutely ignores, because giggles are never a good look on a presenter.   
   
“Good points,” she says instead. “Well made.” She pauses, waiting until the camera turns away, and Norman abandons his post in favour of finding a coffee. “But why are you doing it?”   
   
“Because it’s fun,” Gerard says.   
   
“Because they want us to compete,” Joan says, “and I don’t see why we should have to.”   
   
“Because what are they going to do?” Frank says. “Find another set of bakers? In a tent? In a field? In the middle of nowhere? On a Sunday afternoon?”   
   
“They could disqualify you,” Sue warns and all three of them shrug.   
   
“We’re not trying to win, darling,” Joan says. “We just want to make the best cake we can.” She looks at Sue, considering. “You understand that, don’t you?”   
   
And the thing is, Sue _does_.  After eight years of a competition that’s always defied the norms, this is a fitting culmination to the show. They’ve all heard the rumours that they’ll be moving channels next season (if there even _is_ a next season) and Sue knows in her heart of hearts that she won’t be moving with it.   
   
TV channels want conflict, viewers want the worst of the characters exposed. That’s not what Bake Off has ever been about for her, and this? This grand gesture by the final finalists? It’s perfect really.   
   
Joan seems to be following her reasoning. She nods, satisfied, and turns back to her pan of cherries.   
   
“They’ll be talking about this for years,” she says happily, and Sue knows she’s right.   
   
—  
   
For all his show of confidence, Gerard’s heart is in his throat as the clock ticks down the final minutes.   
   
This was his idea, and even if the other have been supportive, if everything fucks up it’s gonna be down to him.   
   
“Breathe,” Frank orders. “It’s gonna be fine.”   
   
“Is it?” Gerard’s fingers have all been replaced by thumbs and he can’t get the lattice work of chocolate that’s going around the edge of the cakes to bend properly.   
   
“Of course it fucking is,” Frank says and nods over at where Joan is gilding tiny edible pansies. “You think she’d be this calm if it wasn’t?”   
   
Gerard snorts, but his hands are shaking less now, and when he tries to roll the chocolate lace around the cake, it goes smoothly and compliantly.   
   
He breathes a sigh of relief.  
   
“How are you getting on with the spun sugar?” he asks and Frank grins with unholy glee.  
   
“I’m done.” He gestures as the chaotic golden domes that are set out to cool on his bench. “We just need to assemble the cakes when you’re finished.”   
   
“And the concept works?”  
   
“It’s a wedding cake,” Frank says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t think it needs a concept.” There’s a pause where Gerard doesn’t pout like a thwarted toddler and Frank isn’t charmed despite his best efforts before Frank relents. “But, yes. It works.”   
   
Using the concept of the triumph of love is perhaps a little on point, but no one said that cakes could only have one meaning.   
   
“Okay," Gerard says and tries to avoid looking at the glowering production assistants whose milling about has only increased the closer it gets to judging.   
   
He’s not about to back down though, so he juts his chin up and starts the monumental task of putting the cakes together.   
   
It’s what he’s good at – the part of baking he’s best at, and if it wasn’t for the cameras and lights he could almost relax.   
   
Frank, on the other hand, gets more and more wound up as the time ticks down.   
   
“C’mon, c’mon,” he mutters to himself as he tries to place the delicate petals over the spun sugar and Gerard can see he’s about to press too hard on the fragile strands. He reaches out and catches Frank’s wrist before he can stop himself.   
   
“Steady,” he says, the thrum of Frank’s frantic pulse beating a tattoo under the pads of his fingertips. “You can do this.”  
   
Frank stops and looks up, his whole attention focussed on Gerard. “Okay,” he says, his voice low. In the too bright lights that television demands, Gerard can see that his lips are chapped and dry.   
   
“Okay,” Gerard repeats, and then realises he’s still holding Frank’s wrist and drops it, blushing. He can feel the heat of Frank’s skin afterwards, even though Frank has moved away, and it draws his eyes.   
   
“You boys,” Joan says, halfway between exasperated and amused. “In my day we actually asked if we wanted to start courting someone.”  
   
“What?” Gerard says, swinging around to look at her. “No! It’s not like that!”  
   
“Of course it’s not,” she says, patting his cheek. “Now, are you ready for these gilded raspberries yet?”   
   
He can’t shake what she said though, not while they finish the cake, not while they carry it to the front bench, not while Mary and Paul fix them with their stoniest glares and Joan takes both of them by the hand, a united force in the face of some serious opposition.   
   
“So….” Paul says, dragging the word out while they shuffle their feet and try to hold their nerve.   
   
“You worked together,” Mary says, when the tension has risen to almost unbearable levels. “And you’ve come up with something splendid.”  
   
“It’s impressive,” Paul says grudgingly. “But is it good enough?”  
   
“The decoration is good.” Mary turns the cake critically. “I like how each layer has its own identity, but the whole thing feels like it has consistency.”  
   
“You’ve used your time well,” Paul agrees. “You clearly worked well as a team and made the most of your strengths.”   
   
“A very moist bake,” Mary says as she cuts into one cake after the next, putting a slice of each on a plate. “And very exciting flavours.”   
   
“They’re a nice balance,” Paul says around a mouthful of cake. “The raspberry is a great foil to the chocolate layer.”  
   
“And is that bacon?” Mary asks.  
   
“Facon,” Frank says, and Gerard grins. As if they’d be allowed to use real bacon with Frank on the team.   
   
“Overall,” Mary says, chewing thoughtfully. “I think this is a success.”  
   
“What we can’t do though is to decide between you.” Mary fixes them with a look. “Instead we are going to ask you: who do you think should win?”  
   
The question takes Gerard wholly by surprise, but he has no doubt what the answer should be. Over the top of Joan’s head he catches Frank’s eye, smiling when Frank nods at him.   
   
“Joan,” he says and both he and Frank take a step back in unison. “She deserves it. She’s been the heart of this show, right from the start.”  
   
“Plus she’s badass,” Frank adds with a grin. “She should win.”  
   
Paul cocks his head to the side. “And you both agree with this?” He asks, overwhelming Joan’s squawk of outrage.   
   
“We do,” Frank and Gerard say together, and Gerard feels a warm glow of satisfaction that they can understand each other at least on this.   
   
It’s television, not real life, so instead of time to process, they are hustled outside by the production team, blinking against the sunlight and surrounded by the previous bakers and their associated hangers-on.   
   
Mikey’s there, Gerard knows, probably with Kirsten since they seem to have spent every waking moment together recently. He’s fairly sure his mom is there somewhere as well… and he can feel his grandmother here, even if it’s only in spirit. She’d have liked Joan, he thinks, smiling against the small stinging hurt of the thought, and she would have loved what they did together.   
   
For now, though, he can’t take his eyes off Frank, and even though they’re being kept apart, he’s looking right back at Gerard.  
   
It’s… something, and it fills Gerard with a peculiar bubbling warmth, even if for now, he has to play by the rules of television.   
   
—  
   
“It’s a year that’s broken the mould,” Sue says.   
   
“We’ve been swamped by Americans,” Mel replies.   
   
“Had flames and flambes, toast and tantrums.”  
   
“We’ve had gingerbread that’s wouldn’t stay together…”  
   
“…And bakers that couldn’t be separated.”  
   
“For the first time we’ve had a group bake, and an elected winner.”  
   
“Which is why,” Sue says, “we’re thrilled to be able to announce Joan as the winner of this year’s Bake Off.”  
   
“America threw the best it had at us,” Mel says, “and you threw them right back.”  
   
“From your banana and apricot sandwich cake in week one, to your strawberry and elderflower mousse cake in week nine, you’ve given us some of the best bakes of this show.”  
   
“And even now in the final week you’ve surprised and thrilled us.”  
   
“Congratulations, Joan,” they say together, passing her the trophy. “You deserve this.”  
   
Joan is beaming as wide as a Cheshire Cat, but she’s trembling as she clings to Gerard and Frank, the trophy pressed uncomfortably between them.  
   
“Thank you,” she says, before her family and the other bakers descend on her. Gerard and Frank are pushed to the edge, finally free of the TV circus and the cameras.   
   
“You okay?” Frank asks, and Gerard shrugs.  
   
It’s over – finally and completely done – and there’s nothing to keep him here any more, no reason why he has to see Frank again.   
   
“It’s a lot to take in,” he says, and something in Frank’s expression makes Gerard think that he might just understand all the things he’s not saying.   
   
“What are you going to do now?” Frank asks, and for the first time his smile looks sympathetic rather than mocking.   
   
“Go home, I guess.” Gerard scuffs his toes in the grass, ignoring an excited shout from Mikey in the distance. “What about you?”  
   
“Dunno.” Frank bites his lip and looks at the sky like he’s plotting mischief. “I mean I guess I could start my own bakery or something, but…” He grins at Gerard. “My cakes look like shit.”  
   
“Fuck that,” Gerard says. “That wedding cake was fucking perfect.”  
   
“Only cuz you were there to help me.”  
   
“So, what? You want me to come and decorate all your cakes or something?”  
   
“I can think of worse ideas,” Frank says and Gerard feels his breath catch.   
   
“Yeah,” he says, stepping into Frank’s space, uncaring of the cameras and people that surround them. “Why the hell not.”


	11. Epilogue - A Little Less Store-Bought Cake Mix

A Little Less Store-Bought Cake Mix  
[www.theguardian.com]  
   
Their joint bake was the talk of the summer, but since then, how have the Bake Off bakers fared?   
   
Well, they’ve opened a wedding cake shop for a start, making cakes for the great and the good, and if rumour has it, there’s even a Royal commission on the way. But are wedding cakes in their future?  
   
“Not saying,” Frank tells us when we ask, but he and Gerard are wearing matching bracelets and they work (and bicker) together with the comfort and familiarity of an old married couple already.   
   
And they’re not the only ones.   
   
Pete and Patrick, favourites from the very first week, have been pictured at more than one event together, and Mikey and Kristen got engaged only a few weeks ago. It’s a fairly safe bet that their wedding cake will be kept in the family.   
   
And do Frank and Gerard regret what they did? Giving up the chance to win the last Bake Off that shown on the BBC?   
   
“Never,” Gerard says, slipping his arm around Frank’s shoulders. “That was the most important cake of my life and I wouldn’t change a thing.”  
   
“I dunno,” Frank says, grinning up at him. “Weren’t you saying something about a honey drizzle for the top layer the other night?”  
   
We leave them to their argument, one of Bake Off’s biggest success stories, home again in New Jersey, but really on top of the world.  
   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because there were too many potential chapter headings, have the leftovers...  
> I’ve got those icing-bag blues  
> I've Got a Food Mixer and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth  
> Hot to the touch, cold on the inside: Classic baking mistakes

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Illustrations to Sugar We're Going Down Baking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12342729) by [johanirae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johanirae/pseuds/johanirae), [LadySmutterella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySmutterella/pseuds/LadySmutterella)




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